


Junkyard scraps

by galwednesday



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: further tags and summaries in chapter notes, unfinished works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-07-16 04:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16078058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galwednesday/pseuds/galwednesday
Summary: A place to put WIPs that I never finished, for convenient reference later and so that people who find behind-the-scenes stuff interesting can take a look. Everything here is on permanent hiatus and less polished than anything I would post as a complete work. Themes or scraps from these fics might show up in future works, but this is where I'm putting fics I want to clear off my plate, so it's very unlikely these specific fics will ever be finished.Each chapter contains a new work, and tags/pairing/warnings will be in the front chapter notes.





	1. Infinity Wars fix-it epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hi there," Tony said, one repulsor up and ready. It took more effort than he liked just to hold his arm extended at shoulder-level. The battle with the Chitauri, not to mention his own very-fucking-near-death experience, had taken a bit of a physical toll. But somehow his adrenal glands had found untapped reserves at the sight of what appeared to be himself, looking very much worse for wear, sitting next to a grizzled buff guy. The table behind them was covered in food platters and drinks.
> 
> “Hey,” the other Tony said, and gave him a little wave. He didn’t appear to be armed, but Tony knew exactly how deceptive that could be. “Long time no see.”
> 
> "Pretty sure I saw you this morning when I was shaving,” Tony said, “or is this alternate dimension bullshit instead of time-travel bullshit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: MCU  
> Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: None  
> Relationships: Gen  
> Characters: Tony Stark (x2), Steve Rogers (x2), Clint Barton, Bruce Banner, Thor, Nick Fury, unfazed NYC waitstaff
> 
> Back in May I reblogged [this tumblr post](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/173909251043/okay-but-honestly-if-there-isnt-an-after-credit) by regaltempo saying "Okay but honestly if there isn’t an after credit scene in Avengers 4 of all the MCU heroes eating shwarma in a shwarma restaurant at a much much bigger table acting even more tired and exhausted then before then what’s even the point" and left these tags: 
> 
> #what if I write a fic that's JUST this scene with a bunch of time-stream shenanigans implied  
> #like everyone has doppleganger selves hanging out at the table from abandoned timelines  
> #when they didn't want to just strand people there  
> #or there's been multiverse traveling and it's people rescued from the shit timelines  
> #so you've got like five enormous tables pushed together  
> #and several dozen exhausted Avengers and Associates steadily plowing their way through the restaurant's entire output"
> 
> ...which I still think is a fun premise, but I realized pretty quickly this was too complicated for the level of investment I was willing to put into an IW fix-it, so I knocked it down to just Future Steve and Future Tony crashing the Avengers' post-Battle of New York shawarma dinner.
> 
> This one stalled out because 1. I haven’t actually seen Infinity War and probably won’t until it shows up on Netflix streaming, so I didn't feel any real urgency to supply a fix-it, and 2. once I knew the general shape of how the meeting would go and what advice the younger Avengers would need to avert all the various subsequent MCU disasters, my brain tacked a big MISSION ACCOMPLISHED banner over it and stopped thinking about it. This is everything I got on paper before that.

“Hi there,” Tony said, one repulsor up and ready. It took more effort than he liked just to hold his arm extended at shoulder-level. The battle with the Chitauri, not to mention his own very-fucking-near-death experience, had taken a bit of a physical toll. But somehow his adrenal glands had found untapped reserves at the sight of what appeared to be _himself_ , looking very much worse for wear, sitting next to a grizzled buff guy. The table behind them was covered in food platters and drinks.

“Hey,” the other Tony said, and gave him a little wave. He didn’t appear to be armed, but Tony knew exactly how deceptive that could be. “Long time no see.”

“Pretty sure I saw you this morning when I was shaving,” Tony said, “or is this alternate dimension bullshit instead of time-travel bullshit?”

“Six of one, half dozen of the other,” the man next to the other Tony said--and holy hell, that was _Steve Rogers_ , with new lines carved into his forehead and a reddish beard hiding half his face. Tony looked at the Steve Rogers next to him, who was exhausted and covered with grime but still somehow glowing in a way the other Rogers wasn’t. The other Rogers looked like he’d been tired for _years_.

 

“Let’s play pretend for a second,” other Tony said. “Let’s pretend that you rebuild, but the team never really gels. Personality conflicts, competing priorities, yadda yadda yadda, so that by the time you face your first really divisive threat, the fault lines are already there. Someone finds the right leverage point, and _crack_.” He snapped a toasted flatbread in half, a spray of crumbs scattering across the table. “No more Avengers.”

The new guy, Barton, squinted at him. “Who the hell are the Avengers?”

 

“By your own account, the two of you failed your world," Thor said, arms crossed, and Tony understood now why his costume didn't have sleeves, because no fabric could possibly have stood up to those biceps. "Why should we heed your advice?”

Other Tony leaned forward, one elbow propped on the table. He looked almost as tired as Rogers. “Because we’ve seen the most alternate timelines, and we understand the most about how things can go wrong. Knowledge is power. Trust me, you don’t want this baby-face--”

“I’m _forty-two_ ,” Tony said, and was ignored.

“--steering the boat, I know exactly how he’d fuck it up, because that’s how _I_ fucked it up. Case in point,” he said, turning to Tony, who suddenly felt like he was facing down a reporter armed with leaked nudes, “you already have grand plans about how to rebuild the Tower, right? Maybe add a few more residential floors at the top, invite your battle buddies here to move in?”

Tony managed not to turn and check the reactions of the people standing behind him, but he couldn’t help but sound defensive when he said, “It was just an idea. You know, one of those combat rush, spur-of-the-moment impulse things. I’ll probably forget all about it by tomorrow.”

“It’s a _good_ idea, and who the fuck do you think you’re kidding, you’ve been waiting your whole life to find a group of people as crazy as you are who can actually keep up with you for more than twenty minutes, of course you’re going to do it. But once the shiny new personalized suites are done, what are you going to do then?” Future Tony threw his head back dramatically, arms out at his sides. “You’re going to invite them to move in, and when most of them turn you down, you’re going to _accept no for an answer_ instead of, I don’t know, _trying again_ after a few months once you’ve actually gotten to know each other. Do you not understand how emotionally constipated these people are? Does that guy look like someone who wants to impose?”

Steve blinked as Future Tony pointed at him. “I generally don’t,” he said.

“He really doesn’t,” the older Steve Rogers said. “He thinks everyone who’s being nice to him is doing it out of pity. He’ll believe you’re just inviting him to move in as some kind of grandiose apology for what you said on the helicarrier, and maybe because you feel sorry for him, so he’s going to turn you down and go to the Grand Canyon to sulk.”

Steve looked mad now, his jaw squaring up in a way Tony already recognized as a danger signal. It wasn’t the most altruistic response, but Tony was a little bit relieved to not be the only person getting emotionally vivisected in public by his future self.

“Banner, there, _he_ moves in, good job, Brucie-baby, you were always the sensible one,” Future Tony continued. “But without Mr. Moral Compass and the paranoia twins here to keep you guys in check, you and Bruce cook up a brilliant idea about how to ensure world peace which, spoiler alert, does not work. I’ll spare you the details, you don’t need those particular nightmares, you’re going to have it bad enough with the whole wormhole thing. Suffice it to say, it was a bad call.”

“If you’re trying to prevent me from doing it, shouldn’t I know what it is?”

“No need, and not effective, anyway--we’ve tried this enough times before now to know that if I tell you not to do Terrible Idea A, you guys skip right along to Terrible Ideas B through X. It’s like playing Armageddon whack-a-mole. No, the permanent fix for this problem is for all of you to run your ideas by the rest of the team. The _whole_ rest of the team,” the other Tony said, sweeping an arm to indicate all six of them. They were all still standing behind Steve and Tony, silently backing them up. Well, more like trying not to pass out from exhaustion, in Banner’s case, but the implicit emotional support was still present and appreciated. “It doesn’t work any other way.”

“If you know what’s going to happen,” Barton said, “why didn’t you stop the invasion?”

“We tried it that way,” future Rogers said. “A lot of times. It’s worse without it.”

“ _How_ ,” Tony demanded.

“Do you have any idea how terrifying we all are?” future Tony said. “No, seriously, Thor is a _god_ , he can call down _lightning_ , Bruce can level a city all by himself, Steve took out entire military bases with a six-man team, Clint and Natasha are the deadliest assassins in modern history and they used to work for the bad guys, you fly around in a metal suit with more destructive power than most aircraft carriers, you think all that doesn’t scare the absolute shit out of people? And you six are just the beginning. There will be so many more people with powers you can't even imagine coming into the world. Most of them are just trying to survive, but we’re all going to scare people, and scared people do stupid, terrible things.”

“In the absence of an external threat,” future Rogers said, still looking directly at Barton, his voice so gentle it hurt to listen to, “people turn on each other. Without the alien invasion, without the proof that humanity needs metahuman protectors, humanity hunts metahumans to extinction.”

“And let me tell you, those were the most depressing timelines, you should all be very glad you get to skip those. You haven’t seen bad until you’ve seen the version of history that happens without aliens there to scapegoat.”

Tony looked at his future self and didn’t ask about oily water in a cave, about Yinsen, about everyone killed by Stark weapons because Obadiah was double-dealing and Tony didn't notice. He really didn’t want to know what paths his life could have taken that would have been _worse_ than Afghanistan.

“We did what we could to minimize the damage,” future Rogers said, “but we couldn’t save everybody.”

Barton didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I reserve the right to be pissed off about it.”

“Understood,” future Rogers said.

“Would it help if we told you Coulson isn’t dead?”

There were a few exciting minutes where Barton tried to draw on the future Tony and Rogers before being wrestled into submission by Thor. Natasha was eyeing the future duo, who hadn’t even stood up during the tussle, with flat malice.

“If you’re lying,” she said softly, before Rogers held up a hand.

“We’re not.”

“Call Fury,” future Tony said, lounging back in his chair and apparently enjoying the dinner show. He‘d taken the opportunity to signal the server, who didn’t react in the slightest to an alien prince bodily enveloping a kicking and struggling archer and thus was either in mild shock or just battle-hardened in the way that New York wait staff tended to be after their first few weekend shifts, to refill his coffee. “Tell him you want to see Coulson, see what he says. Once you get access, stick close to him while he recovers. Don’t let Clint run away out of misguided guilt, trust me, your team has enough of that going around already.”

“How about letting Clint breathe,” Barton gasped, and Thor loosened his hold.

Future Tony sighed showily, communicating how very inconvenienced he was, and said, “Hey JARVIS, call Fury.”

Tony’s suit started dialing. “Hey,” he said, indignant. “You don’t tell JARVIS what to do. _I_ tell JARVIS what to do.”

“Speaker, JARVIS,” future Tony said, and the call routed through the suit’s external speakers just as Fury picked up.

“Nice catch back there, Stark,” Fury said, and Tony shuddered through an involuntary full-body recall of the weight of the nuke on his back. “Is someone dying? I’m a little busy.”

“Hey, Nick,” future Tony called, while Tony was still trying to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his suddenly dry mouth. It was dawning on him that this particular brush with death was going to join his nightmares of caves; oh, joy. “Code sierra-ten-fifty-lima-bravo, for Steve Rogers and myself, future version speaking. How’s tricks?”

There was a moment of silence. “How fucked are we?”

“Getting progressively less fucked all the time, buddy, but we’d be in even better shape if you’d tell the team Coulson’s real status.”

“It’s too early to say.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Barton was still wedged under one of Thor’s massive arms, but he was getting enough air to be loud. “If he’s dead he’s dead, what the fuck does _too early to say_ mean?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, he’s not dead,” future Tony said. “Or if he is, he won’t stay dead for long. Thanks for the update, Nick, call Romanoff when Coulson wakes up and make sure she and Barton have unrestricted access while Coulson heals, the fate of the world depends on it, you know the drill. Toodles. JARVIS, end call.”

“Belay that,” Tony said, but the call had already closed. “Dammit, JARVIS, stop taking orders from him!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” JARVIS said, sounding apologetic, “but his privilege level exceeds your own.”

Mostly Tony had been intrigued, but now that was losing ground to just plain pissed off. “What did you do to JARVIS?”

“I built him,” future Tony said. “Not just in the sense that I built everything you built, because, hello, same person, but in the sense that I dropped by a decade ago when you were putting his core programming together and left myself a few backdoors. I won’t bother telling you not to go looking for them, feel free, you won’t be able to lock me out anyway. I’d apologize but I’m not sorry.”

Steve moved in Tony’s path when he took an unconscious step forward. “Mr. Stark,” he said, disapproval clear in his voice, and Tony’s hackles went up instinctively before he realized Steve was talking to the future Tony. “Stop baiting him.”

“Look at that, he already has the Captain America is Disappointed in You face,” future Tony said to future Rogers.

“You’re being worse than usual,” future Rogers told him, and slapped a pita against future Tony’s chest. “You always get cranky when your blood sugar’s crashing. Eat.”

“Yes, _mom_. Ooh, pass the tzatziki.”

Future Rogers took over the briefing as future Tony started eating in huge, messy bites. “Tony,” and oh, it was _weird_ to hear Rogers say his name with so much easy familiarity, like they’d known each other for years. “How did your father die?”

“You don’t already know? Oh, you’re kidding," Tony said, catching up. Of course time travelers would need to recalibrate what had happened every time they made a change, to see how they were affecting the timeline." _That’s_ one of the critical points? Is it worse when he lives longer or dies earlier?”

“Tony,” future Rogers repeated patiently, with no change in tone, “how did your father die?”

“Car crash,” Tony said, and watched both men freeze. “Shit, is that the wrong answer? That’s the wrong answer, isn’t it?”

“'Ow’d ‘e crash,” future Tony demanded, his mouth still full.

“Wrapped his car around a tree. They found two empty bottles of scotch in the passenger footwell. Can’t say it was a surprise.”

“What about your mom?” future Rogers said carefully.

“What the fuck, what _about_ my mom,” Tony said, his heart rate spiking. “She moved to Marseilles, I see her once a year at Christmas, did something happen? Is she--”

“She’s fine,” future Tony interrupted. “I mean, presumably. Probably she’s a little freaked out about her kid flying into a wormhole.”

“Have you called her yet?” Steve asked, not actually disapproving, but looking like disapproval was waiting in the wings.

“I called Pepper,” Tony said defensively. “Pepper will have called her by now, and Rhodey, and the rest of the vital stats committee." It was an actual committee, drawn up with actual legal paperwork. After the time when his arc reactor was failing and he hadn’t told anyone (he’d been waiting for the right moment, but it was amazing how unreasonable people could get about that sort of thing), the friends and family he’d managed to hang on to ganged up on him, and now he was required to report any and all brushes with death and current vital stats to at least one committee member within two hours of the incident.

“You should really call her yourself,” future Rogers said.

“Oh my God, stop, I can’t handle _both_ of you nagging me.”

Rogers held up his hands and went silent. Steve, after a glance at his future self, did the same. Even under the concrete dust, he looked pretty wan. Tony was recalled to his original impulse: battle won, chow time.

“Let’s stop talking about my myriad failures as a son and get back to why we were originally here, okay?” Tony dropped heavily into a chair, pleased when it didn’t buckle under the weight of the suit. It wouldn’t have been the first time he landed on his ass in distinguished company, but he didn’t really need even more bruises. “Come on, future doppleganger, quit hogging all the bread.”

After a few more wary glances, the present contingent arranged themselves around the table, leaving the future duo side by side. For a while everyone concentrated on eating. Banner fell asleep in his chair, head lolling onto Thor’s shoulder.

 

Future Rogers wrote an address on a scrap of paper. “Go here,” he said, passing the paper to Steve. “As soon as you can. Both of you,” he added, looking at Natasha. “There’s a hidden elevator behind the second floor supply closet. When you find the chamber, the code to use is 535827.”

Steve studied the paper, then gave his future self a wary look. “What are we going to find there?”

“A friend.”

“Eventually,” future Tony muttered, and got an elbow to his side for his trouble.

Future Rogers hesitated, looking uncertain for the first time, then told Steve, “Bring a blanket.”

“Bring _tranquilizers_ ,” future Tony said

“Also not a bad idea,” future Rogers admitted.

Steve gave them both an evaluating look, then folded the piece of paper and tucked it inside his glove. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEN EVERYTHING THAT EVER WENT WRONG IN THE MCU (after the first Avengers movie, anyway) WAS FIXED, THE END.


	2. Tony/Bruce with functional immortality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you’re immortal,” Tony said, “or as close to it as any life form I’ve ever studied, and you know I mostly leave the squishy sciences to you, but I’ve invaded the genomic privacy of a few Turritopsis dohrnii in my time, and they’ve got nothing on you, Jolly G.”
> 
> Bruce was too tired to really react to this. It wasn’t a new thought, but it wasn’t a resolved problem either, and unresolved problems still had the power to wind him up. (His whole life was an unresolved problem.)
> 
> He didn’t get wound up this time, though. He just yawned and stepped back so Tony could barge into his apartment like he was so clearly dying to. “What’s your point?”
> 
> “We should date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: MCU - Avengers  
> Rating: Teen (implied off-screen sex, swearing)  
> Warnings: None  
> Relationships: Bruce Banner/Tony Stark  
> Characters: Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, JARVIS
> 
> I started this AGES ago, probably back in 2016. I thought too hard about what would happen if Bruce were functionally immortal, because Hulk, and how lonely that would be, and then I needed to _fix it._

Bruce woke up at a quarter to four in the morning because someone was pounding on his door. His first coherent thought was _oh, good, progress_. Progress because he wasn’t waking up to someone barging into his bedroom mid-sentence, bouncing on the edge of his bed until he sat up in the dark and made “I’m paying attention” noises. This time, Tony had knocked.

Bruce opened the door and stepped back fast, just in case Tony didn’t stop knocking fast enough to avoid hitting him in the nose. It would be annoying for Bruce and potentially disastrous for his living room. “What?”

“So you’re immortal,” Tony said, “or as close to it as any life form I’ve ever studied, and you know I mostly leave the squishy sciences to you, but I’ve invaded the genomic privacy of a few _Turritopsis dohrnii_ in my time, and they’ve got nothing on you, Jolly G.”

Bruce was too tired to really react to this. It wasn’t a new thought, but it wasn’t a resolved problem either, and unresolved problems still had the power to wind him up. (His whole life was an unresolved problem.)

He didn’t get wound up this time, though. He just yawned and stepped back so Tony could barge into his apartment like he was so clearly dying to. “What’s your point?”

“We should date.”

“That’s an interesting conclusion.” Bruce padded into the kitchen and started filling a kettle at the sink as Tony made a beeline for the coffeemaker. Bruce never drank coffee, but Tony did, so Bruce’s kitchen had a coffeemaker. To look at it a different way, Tony owned several apartments with several kitchens and several coffee makers in the building, and Bruce happened to live in the apartment containing this one. Tony’s concept of ownership was about sixty degrees sideways to most people’s, and Bruce was still working out the nuances. “I feel like I’ve missed a few of your initial data points.”

Tony rummaged through a kitchen cabinet and pulled out two mugs. “Point one: you’re going to live forever, or at least as close to it as any human has ever gotten.”

“That, we’ve established,” Bruce said mildly. He put the kettle on the stove and lit the burner. The blue ring of flame was the brightest thing in the room, but only because the glow of Tony’s arc reactor was dimmed by his black t-shirt.

“Point two, I’m the foremost artificial intelligence innovator on the planet, bar none.”

There were people who might argue with that, but not many, and Bruce wasn’t among them. “I’ll allow it.”

“Point three, biological intelligence and artificial intelligence aren’t as far away from each other as most people think. If I’m right, and I usually am, they’ll be virtually indistinguishable by the end of the century.”

“That’s not a data point, it’s conjecture.” Bruce swung the fridge door open, squinting against the glare. “Do you want milk?”

“Humor me. Do you have real milk, or is it all soy?”

“I have vanilla almond creamer.”

Tony hummed and held a hand out, see-sawing it back and forth. “Acceptable.”

Bruce added a dollop of creamer to one of the mugs Tony had set on the counter. He pulled out a tea strainer and filled it with loose leaf chamomile. “So, to summarize: I’m immortal, you’re doing peerless work on AI, and you’re speculating that artificial and human intelligences will soon be on par.”

“Precisely. Therefore, we should date.”

“That still seems like a leap.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not a leap, once you understand the logic it’s barely more than a stretch. Maybe a hop. A tiny one.”

Bruce knew Tony very well indeed. “Is this chain of logic going to end with you uploading yourself as an AI?”

Tony pointed at him, _ding ding ding, give the man a cigar_. “See? Tiny hop. More of a shuffle. You don’t seem excited, why isn’t this more exciting to you? Is it because I’m a man? Because I’m not dead set on this gender, and once I’m no longer wearing my original packaging, I’d be open to taking suggestions.” The coffee maker gave one last gurgle before beeping. Tony lunged forward and emptied the half-full carafe into his mug.

“I’m pansexual,” Bruce said.

“Perfect, let’s do dinner and a show on Friday,” Tony said, backing towards the door, mug in hand. Bruce was impressed despite himself that he didn’t trip over the coffee table. “Your schedule is clear, I had JARVIS check, I’ll pick you up at seven. Thanks for the coffee.”

Tony disappeared down the hallway. Bruce picked up his tea, which hadn’t even finished steeping.

“You’re welcome,” Bruce said to the empty kitchen.

 

The truth is, Bruce is lonely.

 

That Friday evening, Bruce stared at his closet, trying to figure out what he was supposed to wear on a date with Tony Stark. Something more formal than his usual yoga pants and a t-shirt, presumably. What was meant by "dinner and a show?" For Tony, that could encompass anything from a reservation at Per Se and opera tickets to cheeseburgers and an MST3K marathon in the Avengers common room.

Bruce gave in and consulted an expert. "JARVIS, what's Tony wearing?"

"Sir has changed his outfit several times, but appears to have settled on a Black Sabbath shirt under a black blazer worn with blue jeans."

"Do the jeans have holes?"

"No, Doctor Banner."

"Right." He'd better wear dress pants, then, and a sweater over his shirt.

 

Tony picked up his dessert fork and twirled it over his fingers. “You get a companion who can travel into the future with you. Granted that companion is me, which some people would consider a major drawback.”

“What’s in it for you?”

Tony gave him an impatient look, like he thought Bruce was being deliberately obtuse. “I get to date you.”

“Most people would see that as a major drawback.”

“Those people are dumb. I’m not most people. Here, try this,” he said, and shoved half his tiramisu onto Bruce’s plate.

“Dr. Ross isn’t dumb.” Bruce took a bite of tiramisu. It was creamy and rich with a surprisingly bitter edge from the strength of the espresso. It wasn’t something he would have chosen for himself, but he liked it. He liked that Tony had known he would like it.

“Let’s chalk that up to differing levels of risk aversion, then. As you may have noticed, I like risk. Also you.” Tony stole Bruce’s coffee and drained it. “I like you, so. That’s a plus. For me.”

“I like you too, Tony.”

“Great.” Tony stood up abruptly. “So, sex?”

  
  
The truth is, Bruce has had a crush on Tony since the third time they met.

 

They first met on the helicarriers. That hadn't ended particularly well for anyone. The second time they met, they were fighting aliens. Bruce remembers saying, “I’m always angry,” and the next thing he knew, he was sitting in a half-destroyed restaurant eating a falafel wrap, with Tony on his left. The Avengers had saved the world, Tony had saved the city, and the Other Guy had saved Tony’s life.

Tony noticed things. When Bruce finished his falafel, Tony ordered another, and another, and shoved the bowl of hummus in front of him, and piled everyone’s leftover bread onto Bruce’s plate. It took a solid 10,000 calories or so to feel full after the Other Guy had been set loose, and it was possible Tony had done enough research to reach that conclusion independently, but it was equally likely he had noticed how quickly Bruce had finished his food, jaw working rabbit quick compared to the other Avengers’ exhausted chewing, and how his hands had hovered over his empty plate before dropping into his lap.

Either way, getting him more was kind. Bruce had taken it as a gesture of thanks for the Other Guy’s actions, and a nice little send-off for Bruce. Nice to meet you, thanks for not letting me die, see you around. It hadn’t been until Bruce was contacted by Pepper Potts herself asking about move-in logistics that Bruce realized Tony had been serious about his blithe invitation to come live in the tower.

The third time they met, Bruce pulled up to the Tower on a rented bike with a stack of cardboard boxes balanced precariously on the handlebars, and Tony came down to meet him in the lobby. Tony was trying to dazzle, and it had worked a little too effectively, Bruce had thought at the time. He'd assumed the way Tony's t-shirt had outlined the muscles of his shoulders when he helped Bruce carry his boxes had been unintentional. It isn't until their date that Bruce realizes that might have been on purpose, that Tony might have been thinking all this time about what it would take to make Bruce look at him the way Bruce has carefully _not_ been looking at him.

 

"Let me see," Tony demanded. He put a hand under Bruce's chin and tipped his face up with surprisingly gentle fingers. "Yeah, there it is. Don't _hide_ from me, Bruce, I know who you are."

And that was true, too. Tony had already seen the best and worst of him, and Bruce wasn't just talking about the other guy.

So Bruce let go of a little more control, and knew his eyes were getting greener based on Tony's fierce grin. Bruce smiled back, a little rueful. "I knew you had a crush on him."

"I had a crush on you first, he just noticed before you did. I’d rather make out with you than the Hulk, though. Do we need to stop?"

Bruce doesn’t want to stop. “Just keep it slow.”

“No problem. We could do a traffic light system, but ‘green’ might get a little confusing in that context, don’t you think?”

 

The truth is, Bruce has always been fascinated by extremes, and Tony is never boring, and Bruce doesn’t know if he’s ever going to die, and when Tony touches him his whole nervous system crackles.

The truth is, Bruce has wanted this for _years_.

“I think we should date,” Bruce told Tony, sweat cooling on his back, their faces only inches apart as they caught their breath on Tony's bed.

“Wow,” Tony drawled, “it’s like you read my mind.”


	3. Save a Horse, Ride a Captain sequel snippets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You have entered the group_ **Vengeance Bros**
> 
> **Stark**   
>  JARVIS
> 
> ORDER CHAMPAGNE
> 
> JUST LIKE
> 
> A HUNDRED CASES OF CHAMPAGNE
> 
> BUY A VINYARD
> 
> **Rhodes**   
>  Belay that, JARVIS.
> 
> **JARVIS**   
>  Thank you, Colonel Rhodes.
> 
> **Stark**   
>  Spoilsports
> 
> We need CHAMPAGNE
> 
> Cap’s getting LAID
> 
> **Rhodes**   
>  Seriously?
> 
> **Wilson**   
>  no
> 
> but he did have an actual conversational exchange with another human that didn’t involve mortal peril on either side
> 
> and they were making some serious calf eyes at each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: MCU/Avengers-all-types, Shrunkyclunks AU  
> Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: None  
> Relationships: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes  
> Characters: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Jim "Rhodey" Rhodes, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff
> 
> Sequel snippets to [Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414524), which you may have seen already if you follow me on tumblr. Sequels, man! I start so many more than I finish! No cliffhangers here, just not quite enough of anything to really be a fic, but I liked the idea of a parallel Avengers chat group.

“You’re really warm,” Bucky slurred. He tucked his chin into the crook of Steve’s shoulder, his stubble scraping gently against Steve’s neck, and Steve almost dropped him.

“How much further?” Steve said desperately. Bucky wasn’t heavy, but carrying the warm, lax weight of him, and feeling the hot rush of Bucky’s breath over his jaw with every exhale, was slowly filling Steve’s body with a light, fizzy happiness that Steve felt instinctively couldn’t be an appropriate reaction to seeing a drunk stranger home. He felt like a shook-up soda bottle.

“Dunno,” Bucky said cheerfully. “Hey, how much can you bench press? How much does a rhinoceros weigh? Is a rhinoceros bigger than a moose?”

“Probably. Stand up for a second, pal, I need to check something in your wallet.”

“Okay.”

Bucky hummed a little, apparently entirely unconcerned, while Steve propped him up against a wall and rifled through his pockets. For a worrying second it looked like Bucky’s wallet might be in his skinny jeans, and Steve wasn’t going to go fishing around in  _ those _ pockets, Bucky’s pants were tight enough that it would count as what Steve’s Ma used to call  _ getting fresh _ , but eventually Steve found a wallet in Bucky’s inner jacket pocket. Steve pulled out Bucky’s ID card and checked his address.

“All right, it’s just a little further. Hop on up.”

Bucky made an adorable little “hup hup” noise while Steve boosted him back up. 

 

 _You have entered the group_ **Vengeance Bros**

**Stark**   
JARVIS

ORDER CHAMPAGNE

JUST LIKE

A HUNDRED CASES OF CHAMPAGNE

BUY A VINYARD

**Rhodes**   
Belay that, JARVIS.

**JARVIS**   
Thank you, Colonel Rhodes.

**Stark**   
Spoilsports

We need CHAMPAGNE

Cap’s getting LAID

**Rhodes**   
Seriously?

**Wilson**   
no

but he did have an actual conversational exchange with another human that didn’t involve mortal peril on either side

and they were making some serious calf eyes at each other

**Stark**   
Yeah fine no he’s not

Mr. Piggy-back was way too drunk for Steve to do anything but gallantly escort him to his door

But he TALKED to someone

To a BOY

A CUTE BOY

Our baby’s growing up

**Wilson**   
he didn’t just talk to him, he LEFT THE BAR with him

**Rhodes**   
Woah. Steve went home with someone?

**Wilson**   
the guy told Steve he had a “good face”

and Steve didn’t even go hide in the bathroom

**Rhodes**   
Was mind control involved?

Maybe some kind of pheromone spray?

**Stark**   
Don’t be ridiculous

My watch tests for airborn toxins every 14 seconds

Plus I had JARVIS run a background check on him the second they left

The guy’s a legit Army Sergeant

And a damn good sniper

Like Clint good

Like “his marksmanship scores are classified” good

**Rhodes**   
Tony.

Please stop telling me when you hack the military.

**Stark**   
It would be faster to tell you when I DON’T hack the military

Like last Tuesday

I didn’t hack the military even a little bit

**Wilson**   
ANYWAY

Steve was all blushy and flustered

It was adorable

**Rhodes**   
Please tell me you have video.

**Natasha**   
<<embedded video: fire_hydrant_steve.mp4>>

**Rhodes**   
Thank you, Natasha.

**Natasha**   
<<flower emojis>>

**Wilson**   
I have real hopes

Like actual grounded in reality hopes

That he will get this guy’s number

And have one

Normal

Friend

**Stark**   
I thought that was your job

**Wilson**   
I can fly, dude

I’m only normal by you-people standards

Because your lives are completely ridiculous

And my life is slightly less batshit

Slightly


	4. IT Stonyclunks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this your first time using email?”
> 
> “Yeah.” The man’s voice was determined again. “A guy I work with bet me a dollar I couldn’t find out his email address, and I mean to prove him wrong.”
> 
> “I can definitely help you with that.” Even if the guy wasn’t listed in the email directory, there wasn’t a personnel file in SHIELD Tony couldn’t dig up contact information for. “What are you going to send him?”
> 
> “I was thinking a blue picture.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: MCU  
> Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: None  
> Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark  
> Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Nick Fury
> 
> I think this grew out of a tumblr post Chibisquirt reblogged looking for the Stony equivalent of Shrunkyclunks, where Steve is Captain America and Tony isn't Iron Man. It's really about 70-80% done and does have the ending in place, I just lost interest once I knew what happened (my chronic WIP curse), so I never filled in all the gaps and polished it up. No cliffhangers, though, just a lot of implied over-the-phone Netflix marathons that never made it on screen.
> 
> Doubles as a Bring Your Fandom to Work Day, and listen, I know Steve would pick up technology insanely quickly, but there are limits on what you can figure out by yourself with no background knowledge. Take it from someone who's helped a lot of very smart professors navigate a brand new technology, there's always a learning curve, even if Steve's would level out damn fast.

“Tony’s Tech Emporium, Tony speaking, how may I direct your call?”

There was a long silence before a male voice responded. “I was told to call this number for help with the computer SHIELD gave me.”

In Tony’s defense, he was bored.

Fury had called him into SHIELD to discuss quinjet engine improvements (specifically, Fury had threatened to let SHIELD engineers make modifications to Tony and Rhodey’s engine design, and Tony had descended wrathfully onto SHIELD HQ), and Tony had budgeted half an hour, max, to explaining why that would be a terrible idea likely to result in catastrophic explosions, so he hadn’t planned on staying long.

Tony’s plans changed after JARVIS cracked SHIELD’s server encryption protocols within five minutes of Tony connecting to SHIELD’s wifi. It was almost cute how SHIELD thought 128-bit encryption was enough to keep him out.

He’d been tempted not to mention the breach in order to have a perpetual back door into SHIELD’s systems, but someone else was bound to discover the exploit eventually, and some of the information on SHIELD servers was about active-duty agents and their assignments, which could lead to a wave of executions if it got into the hands of someone less public-spirited than he was. (Plus he’d already had JARVIS save copies of some of the more interesting files for Tony to poke through later. He was only human, and resisting temptation wasn’t his specialty.)

As soon as Tony told Fury about the breach, the morning had turned into an impromptu security audit. It had been fun to trail behind Fury as he stormed into the IT staff room to bellow at the poor bastards who were working that day. Tony had spent a very entertaining hour stampeding through SHIELD firewalls while SHIELD techs scrambled to lock him out again, before the alarms had gone off.

Fury had rapidly lost all Tony’s newly acquired goodwill by flatly refusing to let Tony help with whatever top-secret crisis was currently looming. “I have a ten-point shit-show classification system,” Fury had said, while looming over Tony as though sheer bulk could lend him authority. “It goes from one to ten. At a level ten, I’ll shake the devil’s hand and put him to work. This threat? This threat is a four. I’ll call you in at a seven.”

And then he had swept out of the door with his dramatic coat billowing behind him, all the IT staff bobbing along like ducklings in his wake. Tony had been left behind with nothing more interesting to do than patch SHIELD’s firewalls, which only took him twenty minutes.

So Tony was bored. Bored and _unsupervised_ , no less, and clearly Fury should have known better. When the phone on one of the SHIELD guy’s desks rang, Tony thought about it for about three quarters of a second before picking up the call.

“I can certainly help you with your computer,” Tony said, propping his feet up on the desk. Whoever normally used this workstation had left a game of Galaga running--maybe later Tony could try to beat his high score. “What do you need?”

“I need to find the email address of someone I work with.”

“Easy peasey, you can look them up in your address book.”

“Right,” the man said, with a level of grim determination that Tony didn’t usually associate with minor tech support issues. “How do I do that?”

“First, just open your email.”

The man sighed a little, almost too quiet to hear. “How do I do that?”

“You can double-click the desktop icon or find it in the Start menu.”

“The desktop icon,” the man repeated slowly.

Tony was starting to wonder if this guy had grown up Amish and signed up with SHIELD one week into his rumspringa. There had to be _some_ explanation for how a young-sounding guy with a solidly American accent could have escaped adolescence without encountering computers enough to know how to open his email.

Whatever the reason was, it would be a dick move to ask him about it--Tony still remembered the first time Howard had sneered at him for not knowing the difference between direct and alternating current, and nevermind that Tony had been _three_ at the time. Normally Tony didn’t have the patience for hand-holding, but this wasn’t some guy cornering Tony at a party and demanding that Tony upgrade his phone, this was someone who was calling the tech support line for help just like he was supposed to.

Plus it was actually a _challenge_ to figure out how to explain basic computer concepts like he was talking to an alien unfamiliar with human technology. (Wait. Could this guy be Thor? No, Thor’s accent in his television interviews had sounded totally different. _Focus, Tony_.)

Also, Tony was bored.

“Okay, so, the main thing to understand about computers is that they’re like dogs. Really enthusiastic, but kind of dumb.” Tony leaned back in the swivel chair, settling in for a long chat. “They don’t speak English, they take all of your commands literally, and they try their best, but they don’t always understand what you want them to do. You with me so far?”

“I’m following.” Was it Tony’s imagination, or did the guy sound a little amused?

“Right, so. The whole point of computers is that you tell them to do stuff and they do it, but because of the whole not-speaking-English thing, you can’t just shout at them until they do what you want. Yet.” Tony was working on that, but voice recognition that took into account the full range of English speakers’ accents and dialects was an order of magnitude harder than just teaching his bots to recognize _his_ commands, so Tony’s voice-to-text algorithms weren’t quite there. Give him four more months. “One of the ways computers let you know what stuff they can do is by displaying little pictures on the screen, and when you tap on the picture depicting what you want the computer to do, the computer runs off and does that task. Those pictures are called icons, like those little paintings, you know those?”

“Yeah,” the guy said, abruptly a lot more relaxed. “Small paintings of religious figures, usually associated with the Eastern Orthodox church. Those, I know.”

And wasn’t _that_ a fascinating contrast, and the religious upbringing theory was getting stronger by the minute. “Right, so when you look at your tablet you see rows of icons laid out on the background, which is called the desktop. Just pretend you’re looking down at a desk with a bunch of tiny paintings on top of it, and each painting represents an action. That’s what your tablet is trying to show you. It’s like a dog waiting for you to pick which toy you’re going to throw so it can go chase it.”

“Got it. So when I pick an icon, the computer tries to do whatever the icon shows?”

“Exactly.”

“So the icon with a picture of an envelope is the mail? Email,” the man corrected himself.

“That’s right.”

The man made a sound of satisfaction. Tony could hear a faint ding in the background as the program opened.

“Is this your first time using email?”

“Yeah.” The man’s voice was determined again. “A guy I work with bet me a dollar I couldn’t find out his email address, and I mean to prove him wrong.”

“I can definitely help you with that.” Even if the guy wasn’t listed in the email directory, there wasn’t a personnel file in SHIELD Tony couldn’t dig up contact information for. “What are you going to send him?”

“I was thinking a blue picture.”

Tony’s fingers froze. So much for Steve being Amish. Maybe he’d been raised by a cult? A luddite, sex-positive cult? There had to be one or two of those out there. “A blue picture? You’re going to send your coworker porn?”

“Well, maybe something just a little racy. I want to catch him off-guard. He acts like I’m a real fuddy-duddy.” He sounded bemused, like he couldn’t understand how he got that reputation. This from a man who said _fuddy-duddy_ without a trace of irony.

“He thinks you’re old-fashioned, huh?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Well, if you work with this guy, I can’t recommend sending him porn. That’s bound to be against HR policy. But if you just want to prove him wrong, I think I have a better idea. What’s your name?”

There was a slight hesitation. “Steve.”

“I’m Tony.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Now Steve definitely sounded amused. “Tony’s Tech Emporium.”

“That’s right. So, Steve,” Tony said cheerfully. “Have you ever heard of trolling?”

 

It didn’t take long to write a virus--just a _little_ one, Tony was being a model of restraint--and send it to the computer of one Clint Barton, who was apparently a SHIELD field agent. Tony entered the final closing tag and leaned back in his chair, angling his body towards the speakerphone.

“Okay, go,” Tony said.

“Hitting send.”

“Perfect.” With a flourish, Tony sent off the virus. It would take effect instantly, flipping Clint Barton’s desktop image from whatever it had been before to an image selected by Steve, after some consultation with Tony. “What did your email text say?”

“‘Dear Clint,’” Steve read, with radio play flair. “‘Thank you for motivating me to learn more about computers. I think I’m really getting the hang of them. Please enjoy your new desktop. Your friend, Steve.’ You’re sure the picture will switch over?”

“Positive. And he’s not going to have an easy time setting it back.” Tony had, as just a little parting touch, removed the user’s ability to re-set the desktop image. Barton could either requisition a clean computer from SHIELD IT or learn to love cats who couldn’t spell. “He’ll think twice about doubting your technology chops after this.”

“Too bad,” Steve said seriously. “I was looking forward to more where that dollar came from.”

“What are you going to say when he asks how you did it?”

“I’ll tell him I know a guy.”

Tony smiled at the phone. This had been _fun_ , more fun than he’d had in--well, maybe it was better not to think about that. “Yeah, you do. Tell you what,” he added, impulsively. “I’m going to give you my direct line, okay? You have any more technology questions, you can call me instead of the general help line and I’ll get you set up.”

“Are you sure?” Steve said doubtfully. “I don’t keep a regular schedule. I might be calling at odd hours.”

“No biggie, my schedule’s weird, too. If I don’t answer and it’s an emergency, you can always call the main help line.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Now he sounded _shy_. It was adorable. Steve was rapidly becoming Tony’s very favorite ex-luddite cultist.

“Not at all, Stevie Wonder. Call anytime.”

 

When Tony’s phone sounded the Gregorian chant Tony had set as Steve’s ringtone in the middle of an atrociously dull board meeting, Tony barely restrained himself from doing the V for victory pose as he jumped out of his seat.

“Emergency,” he said, already heading for the door. “So sorry, gotta take this, keep on keepin’ on.”

Once he was safely outside the conference room, he picked up the call. “Steve MacQueen! What can I help you with today?”

“Hey, Tony.” Steve’s voice was warm and rich. Tony maybe wanted to take a bath in it. No big deal. “I need your help with Netflix.”

“Gimme two seconds.” Tony put his phone on speaker and pulled up the Netflix homepage. “Okay, so first you’re going to go to netflix.com in your browser--”

“Sorry, I should’ve been more specific,” Steve interrupted. “I already made the account.”

“Hey, good going!” Tony’s warm glow of pride was dampened a little bit by the clear and increasing evidence that Steve was getting the hang of technology. This was the fifth time Steve had called, each time with a more complicated question, as he learned to navigate the simpler ones on his own. Steve was a smart, intuitive guy--Tony barely had to tell him step 1 before he was extrapolating steps 2 through 5, and he never forgot anything once he learned it. Soon Steve wouldn’t need to call Tony at all, and that shouldn’t have made Tony feel as disheartened as it did.

Tony was helping, right? That was the whole point, that Steve would learn to do this stuff without him. Mission accomplished. But Tony would miss his voice and his dry little asides about his teammates and--hell, he’d just miss _Steve_ , and never mind that he’d never actually met him.

“Thanks. But now that I have an account, I don’t know what to watch. There are so many movies and TV shows. How am I supposed to pick one?”

“Yeah, that’s the universal Netflix experience. Some say it’s a feature, some say it’s a bug. What’s a movie you know you like? If you rate your favorites, Netflix will start suggesting more for you.”

There was the distant sound of typing. "Hey, they have Gold Rush," Steve said, sounding pleased.

"Well, there you go. Just rate that and other movies you like, and they'll start recommending new ones." Tony let the silence stretch, unwilling to be the one to suggest ending the call, but finally it was too awkward not to say, "Is there something else, Steve?"

“I’ve never watched a movie alone before,” Steve said softly.

“Really?” Tony had grown up watching movies alone, although sometimes Jarvis or Ana would find work that they could bring into the rec room and do sitting next to Tony on the long couch. Tony had memories of Ana sorting through bills and Jarvis slowly stitching minute rips in Howard’s trousers with Disney music blaring in the background, the novelty of company more interesting than the movie itself. “You get used to it.”

“I’m not sure it’s something I want to get used to.”

Tony felt his throat go tight. “Yeah, I get that. You know, I’ve never seen Gold Rush.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You want to watch it together?”

There was a pause that Tony leapt to fill after he realized how that sounded.

“Not in the same place, not like that,” Tony said quickly. "I mean, just, me watching it here while you watch it there, and we keep the call running. I can make fun of the outfits and you can tell me to shut up when the good parts are coming.”

“It’s a silent movie, Tony, you can talk all you want.”

“Oh, Steve. _Steve_. You are going to regret saying that.”

“I’ll bet you a dollar I won’t.”

Tony was glad there was no one in the room to see him grinning to himself like an idiot. “Are you kidding? I’m not making bets with you. I’ve seen how those turn out.”

“What, are you chicken?”

“What’re you, seven years old? You’re not taking my money, Steve. Play the movie.”

 

Tony kept expecting the calls to stop. Instead, Steve just found more complicated questions to ask. What were the differences between all the different social networks, and why did so many of them have pictures of people’s lunch? How could you tell which websites had good intel and which ones were full of shit?

 

 

“How’d you get into this line of work?”

“It was sort of an accident.” That much was true, even if his line of work wasn’t really tech support in the traditional sense. “I always thought I’d follow my father into the family business, but that didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

“How long do you have?” Tony said, just to hear Steve laugh. “We fought. A lot. About his work, about my personal life, about whether it was going to rain the next day, anything and everything. You name it, we had a screaming match over it.

“He and my mother got into a car accident when I was seventeen. He nearly died. Very nearly. He was on life support for three days, with my mother and I sitting next to his damn hospital bed, and about an hour after he woke up, we were back to screaming at each other. The nurses wanted to shoot me.” Steve’s line was quiet. Tony glanced at the call timer to see if he had hung up, but the call was still running. “My mom dragged me out of the hospital. She wouldn’t let my father and me be in the same room for a couple of years, which would have made working together pretty logistically challenging, and by the time we started talking again I’d realized I didn’t really want the life my father had. I wanted to do something else.”

“So you do this,” Steve said softly. “You help people.”

“Yeah.” The half-truth twisted in Tony’s gut, but now more than ever he didn’t want Steve to know who Tony really was. He couldn’t have spilled these secrets to someone who knew his name, his face, his family tree. And helping people _was_ what his consulting work for SHIELD was about, when he was doing it right. He tried to do it right. “When I can.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You’re just grateful I showed you the wonderful world of Netflix.”

“That too.”

They were quiet for a moment and Tony nearly hung up the phone, afraid that now, after all his oversharing, the silence would grow awkward, but then Steve started talking.

“This isn’t what I thought I’d be doing, either. Helping people, fighting for something--I always wanted to do that. I’m glad I can do that. But I never thought I’d wind up here. I didn’t plan for this.”

There was something so raw in Steve’s voice that Tony’s first impulse was to help him cover for it. “Well, most people don’t know SHIELD exists, so that does make planning for a career here difficult.”

It was an easy out, but Steve didn’t take it. “Do you regret it?”

“Not following in my father’s footsteps? Nah. I’ve always been more of a trailblazer. And it worked out for the best. My dad had this business partner.” That was the least of what Obie had been, but it was the only version of this story Tony could tell without exposing even more of his own figurative scar tissue. “Turned out he’d been dealing under the table, selling to very dangerous people. Criminals, terrorists. Anyone with a bid high enough. When my father got close to figuring it out, his business partner tried to kill him.”

“Jesus, Tony.”

“Yeah. On the plus side, it got us talking again.”

“Is your dad okay now?”

“He died a few years ago.” Tony kept his voice light, dispassionate. “Not because of anything his business partner did. Cirrhosis.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like we ever had much to say to each other.” Tony couldn’t sit still another second longer. He transferred the call to the room’s speakers with a gesture, then walked with long, quick strides to the wall of windows looking out over the city. “It hit my mom harder than I expected. The next time she saw me take a drink, she freaked out. Made me swear up and down I’d stop.” She had been crying. Tony had been more rattled by his mother’s tears than Howard’s death.

“My dad drank, too. It made him mean.”

“Yeah.” Tony leaned a forearm against the glass, keeping his eyes on the moving lights of traffic. “Yet another road I didn’t want to go down.”

“I know what you mean.”

Tony hesitated, aware that some of Steve’s life story had to be classified, if he was an active field agent--but hell with it, they could keep it as vague as Steve needed it to be. “Do you regret it? Whatever led you here?”

Steve inhaled and blew the air out hard through his nose. “No. What got me here--by that point, I couldn’t have done anything else. I lost--more than I thought was possible. I wasn’t prepared. But it would have been even worse if I hadn’t. Worse for everyone. So, no. I don’t regret it. I can’t.”

Steve’s grief was palpable. Tony didn’t know what he’d lost, but he knew it was too much. “You’re still allowed to be upset about it, Steve. Even if you don’t regret it. And you’re allowed to regret it, sometimes, even if you couldn’t have done anything else.”

There was a long silence, followed by a shaky exhale. “Seems wrong, somehow. Self-indulgent.”

“ _Fuck_ that,” Tony snapped. “Indulge all you want. Wallow, if you have to. Jesus, Steve, your feelings aren’t rationed. They’re yours, you get to have them, and if anyone tells you that you don’t have the right to grieve, you punch them right in the mouth, okay? Do it for me. I’ll send you a fruit basket.”

Steve’s laugh was suspiciously watery. “Okay, Tony. Whatever you say.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

 

Tony thought that if Steve was ever going to bail on him and just stop calling, it would be after their big night of oversharing. Instead, Steve didn’t even leave him to stew for a full day before calling back.

“Steve,” Tony said, for once too relieved to think up a good last name. “Hey, good morning. How’d you sleep?”

“Better. A lot better, thanks,” Steve said, sounding oddly distracted. “Listen, I have a question, but I don’t want to get you in trouble. If you’re not allowed to answer, you don’t have to, just tell me that you can’t answer, okay? I’ll understand.”

“Okay, color me intrigued. I promise not to do anything that’ll get me in trouble.” Which was nothing, because Tony didn’t work for SHIELD, but he was beyond feeling guilty about that at this point. Mostly. “What’s the question?”

“SHIELD gave me this tablet. If I use it to look something up, can anyone at SHIELD see what I search for?”

Now _that_ was interesting. If Steve had asked a real SHIELD tech guy this question, Tony bet it would have triggered an automatic red flag for all Steve’s browsing history.

Fortunately for Steve, Tony had very different ideas about what SHIELD had the right to know. It was still a hell of a risk, given that Steve had no idea who Tony really was. “Are you sure you should be asking me this?”

“Yes,” Steve said with simple certainty. “I trust you.”

Tony sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s a bold move, Steve.”

“I’m a bold guy. And to be honest, if I can’t trust you, I might as well not trust anyone, and I don’t want to live like that. Also,” Steve said, a bit of humor creeping into his voice, “Nick keeps asking me who changed Clint’s desktop background, so I figure if you haven’t ratted me out for that, maybe you won’t for this, either.”

Steve was on a first-name basis with Fury? More importantly: “Wait a minute, was that a test?”

“No, I really did want to troll Clint. But it is a piece of intelligence. I factored it in.”

“You did, huh.” Tony should probably quit while he was ahead, but Steve had said he trusted him, and Tony couldn’t resist pushing a little. “What do you want to know that you don’t want SHIELD to know you know?”

“I need to look up--” Steve hesitated for a long moment. “Military codes of conduct. See if it’s really true queer soldiers can serve openly now.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s true, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell got repealed.” Tony stared into space for a second, thinking about what Steve was asking, and why he might be asking it now. He ruthlessly suppressed the hope trying to light up his chest and focused on the task at hand. Steve needed help, and Tony hadn’t let him down yet; he wasn’t going to start now. “Tell you what, Steve, I think this might be a little beyond Google. Is it okay with you if I send you something a little more personalized?”

“Whatever you want to give me, I’ll take,” Steve said promptly, and _surely_ he didn’t mean that as an innuendo, _surely_ that was Tony’s imagination running away with him now that he knew Steve might have a personal stake in DADT. Tony’s cheeks felt a little flushed anyway.

“Great.” Tony typed rapidly. “Then say hello, JARVIS.”

“Hello, Steve,” JARVIS said. “Sir has installed me on your device. I am ready to assist you in any way I can.”

“Hi,” Steve said cautiously. “Tony, who’s this?”

“JARVIS is an artificial intelligence. I trust him with my life, and more importantly in this case, I trust him with your browsing history.”

“How do you know him?”

Before Tony could recover from how adorable he found that phrasing--it took a long time for most people to acknowledge JARVIS’ sense of self, okay, Tony was in no way over the novelty of someone treating him like a sentient being right out of the gate--JARVIS was answering for him. “Sir is my creator, although I am capable of learning and evolving independently of his direct input.”

“Like a clockmaker universe.” Steve sounded a little dazed. “Tony, that’s amazing. Thank you.”

 

 

“Hey, JARVIS, feel free to direct Steve to my interview with Ellen if it becomes relevant.” It was probably cowardice to make your AI tell your sort-of-maybe-crush that you were bisexual via pre-recorded interviews, but whatever, it was public record, and Tony didn’t want to risk hearing Steve’s real-time reaction if Tony’s guess about him was off-base. This way Steve could just stop calling if he had a problem with it, and Tony could go back to his normal life. That would be fine. Tony would be fine.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.”

 

“Mr. Stark.”

Tony had been prepared to be as neutrally polite as possible, _Captain_ already sitting on the tip of his tongue, but then he heard that _voice_ and when he opened his mouth what fell out was, “Holy shit, Steve?”

Captain America gawked at him. “Tony?”

Director Fury sighed like a man stuck on a subway platform watching the last train of the night pull away. “Captain Rogers, was our briefing unclear about the _covert_ nature of the Avengers?”

Tony heard _Captain Rogers_ and tried very hard not to flip the fuck out. “Captain Rogers? Captain _Steve_ Rogers? As in, the original Captain Steve Rogers, the one my dad spent 50 years looking for?”

Steve opened and closed his mouth a few times, then turned to Fury. “You have Howard Stark’s son doing _tech support_?”

Fury eyeballed Tony. (It was a single-eye eyeballing, what with the eyepatch, but that only concentrated its power.) “Do I?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Tony hedged. “I might have taken calls to Galaga guy’s phone for a few minutes when I was on site last February, and one of those calls might have been from a charming young man named Steve who _oh my God, no wonder you didn’t know how to use email_.”

Steve’s laugh was even better in person. He pulled off his cowl, and the full force of his unshielded smile hit Tony like a brick. “Hey Nick, meet my friend Tony.”

“ _This_ is your friend,” Fury said heavily. “This is the guy who made you excited about living in the future. Of course he is.”

“So I know you’re about to go punch some mutant bugs or whatever, but are you doing anything after this?” Tony asked, because Steve was definitely giving him the once-over, and like fuck was Tony going to let this opportunity slip by. “You could come by the Tower. I could show you my etchings.”

“I’d like that,” Steve said, and fuck, his voice was all smooth and velvety like it got when he was tired, as though they’d already done a movie marathon and now they were just putting off hanging up so they could listen to each other breathe--

Fury pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gentlemen, can you please restrain yourselves until after the mission is over, and I’m no longer in the room?”

“Sure thing, Nick,” Tony said, and slapped Fury on the back. Normally that would make him wonder if he was about to lose a hand, but Steve was standing right there, and even Fury wouldn’t try to dismember him in front of Captain America. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want more kind of like this, you could check out [Defrost Cycle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760373/chapters/31624194) on my alt account (note that it's a WIP). This is softer and fluffier where Defrost Cycle has more emotional hurt/comfort, I'd say, but they're both Stony with a focus on newly defrosted Steve and Tony trying to help him find his way in the world, and I stole some of what I initially brainstormed for this to use for that instead.


	5. The Lion and the Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have we met?” Iron Man asked. “Because I gotta say, there’s something familiar about you. But that awesome cyborg arm, which, by the way, you should stop trying to punch me with, I would definitely have remembered, so–” Iron Man failed to dodge the Asset’s grab and was thrown upside-down into the wall of the helicarrier. He stuck there for a moment before falling face-first onto the floor. “Maybe not.”
> 
> Fandom: MCU + background Fraction!Hawkeye  
> Rating: Teen probably? Teen/Mature?  
> Warnings: canon-typical violence  
> Relationships: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes  
> Characters: Steve, Bucky, Natasha, Tony, Coulson, Sam, the Howling Commandos, Peggy, basically everyone shows up in this one at least briefly  
> Other tags: Shrinkyclinks, modern Steve Rogers and Howling Commandos, Peggy Carter gets the serum, Winter Soldier trauma umbrella, past sex work, homeless or at least housing-insecure Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, SO. Rewind to early spring 2016. I had just fallen down a well of MCU fanfic that winter and was tentatively starting to write it myself when I encountered Shrinkyclinks as a concept and thought "hey, a re-telling of CA:TWS aftermath but with pre-serum Steve would be fun." I spent that spring and summer working on not just that fic but bits and pieces from prequels AND sequels, in a way that was wildly ambitious and ultimately unsustainable. I moved on to different ideas, my Grand Shrinkyclinks Universe got less and less attention, and eventually by that fall I'd stopped working on it in favor of [No, Mr. Bond](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8685790) and its _entirely different_ CA:TWS re-telling, and I just don't have room in my head or time to spare for TWO of these things, so this one is officially getting kicked to the curb.
> 
> This is a weird and interesting one to look back on because it's almost a time capsule of my writing style of two years ago, when I was still pretty new to these characters, and I was new enough to fic in general that I crammed a lot of "oh and what about THIS" ideas into it like I'd never be writing these characters again, so it went in four or five directions at once instead of solidifying around a narrative arc and ultimately failed to get anywhere. At this point if I ever wanted to finish it I'd have to rewrite most of it. 
> 
> I've already cannibalized this universe for the backstory to [Bait and Switch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13554312)'s Steve and Bucky's first meeting, I've put the modern Howling Commandos in [Save a Horse, Ride a Captain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414524), and I've got Fraction!Hawkeye landlord Clint in a different WIP I'm working on, so parts of this story will live on in other forms (and I'd almost forgotten about the "post-serum Peggy Carter, who went down with the Valkyrie, wakes up in the future and sneaks out of SHIELD custody" bit at the end, I should definitely use that somewhere). There are parts of it I still like and a lot of things I'd write differently now, but I'm dumping the whole disjointed mess of a first draft here for posterity's sake, and because it's interesting to see evolution over time.

**Lion and Mouse main story:**

“Have we met?” Iron Man asked. “Because I gotta say, there’s something familiar about you. But that awesome cyborg arm, which, by the way, you should stop trying to punch me with, I would definitely have remembered, so–” Iron Man failed to dodge the Asset’s grab and was thrown upside-down into the wall of the helicarrier. He stuck there for a moment before falling face-first onto the floor. “Maybe not.”

The Asset scaled the closest ladder in under three seconds. Iron Man was a distraction, not the primary target.

The Asset climbed onto the catwalk and ran towards the Widow. She was ignoring the fight behind her, too busy tampering with something on the control panel.

 _Targeting system_ , a dispassionate voice in the Asset’s head supplied. The Asset disregarded the thought as irrelevant. It couldn’t help deducing information based on passive observation, but it had never been encouraged to know more than it was told.

It threw a knife at the Widow’s back. She moved impossibly quickly, turning so the knife passed harmlessly to one side, but that brought her nearly within the Asset’s reach. The Asset lunged forward–

Iron Man lurched over the edge of the catwalk and slammed into the Asset’s side, knocking them both down to the lowest level of the helicarrier, the glass underbelly. The ground drifted past deceptively slowly beneath them. The helicarrier was riding low enough that the Asset could see river water quaking from the repulsor engines’ vibrations.

“We’re not done, terminator.” Iron Man tried to pin the Asset’s left wrist, but the Asset had already torn off one of his gauntlets and his one-handed grip wasn’t strong enough. The Asset locked its thighs around Iron Man’s waist and threw its body into a twist. Iron Man rolled with the spin and fired his remaining hand repulsor to gain extra momentum, trying to break free of the Asset’s grip.

The repulsor blast must have hit an already damaged support pillar. One moment the Asset was rolling Iron Man onto the floor like a beetle onto its back, and the next the Asset was stunned and gasping, lying face-up and pinned by a metal beam across its abdomen and chest. The beam was too heavy to lift. The Asset was trapped.

“And the Soldier’s finally down. Jesus.” Iron Man pulled his booted foot free of the fallen beam and staggered upright. “Romanoff, you good?”

“Swap made.” The Widow’s voice was light. “We have seven minutes until the fireworks start.”

“Great.” Iron Man shook his foot, the boot repulsor flickering on and off like a dying lightbulb. “I’m down to one and a half repulsors, so if I’m piggybacking you out of here it’s going to get pretty bumpy.”

Their earpieces crackled, a woman’s voice talking about a helicopter en route. The Asset didn’t bother to listen.

 _Mission failure_. Fear washed through the Asset, cryo-cold. Mission failures were unacceptable. It must not fail the mission.

The Asset braced its elbows against the floor. It set its boots flat against the glass below and pushed up with its hips, ignoring the screaming agony spiraling through its abdomen.

“Easy there, tough guy, you’re going to rupture something. Correction, JARVIS tells me you have ruptured several somethings, and now you’re making it worse. Hill, better send paramedics with the chopper if you want the Soldier to live long enough for interrogation.”

Interrogation sent another pulse of terror down the Asset’s spine. It could remain silent despite almost anything, had been given plenty of practice, but interrogation was never easy to endure.

“You know, you really do look familiar.” Iron Man’s head tilted and his faceplate popped up. He narrowed his eyes at the Asset’s face. “JARVIS, run facial recognition on our party crasher.”

The Asset automatically noted that Iron Man was now vulnerable to a throwing knife to the eye, but both its hands were occupied and killing Iron Man wouldn’t salvage the mission.  _Mission failure mission failure mission failure._

The Widow appeared over the edge of the gangplank. She took in the situation at a glance and gave Iron Man an exasperated look. “For God’s sake, Stark. Keep your faceplate down until the Soldier is disarmed.” For a moment the Asset saw that same face, with the same annoyed line between her eyebrows, but smaller and rounder. A little girl’s pout laid over eyes that were decades too old.

 _Malfunction_ , the Asset thought.

Iron Man didn’t seem to hear her. His head snapped back to face the Asset, his eyes widening. “What? JARVIS, repeat that.”

The whine of its arm’s servos increased in pitch as the Asset strained harder. Fire radiated out from its sternum as additional ribs fractured under the pressure. The beam didn’t move.

The panel of glass beneath the Asset did.

The panel separated from one side of its metal housing with a sharp crack. The Asset watched the gap grow wider by inches, slow but inexorable. The seam was going to fail, and the Asset was going to fall.

The Asset stopped pushing against the beam, letting its body go lax against the slowly shifting glass. There was no way to prevent it. And it was fitting, somehow, that the Asset should die by falling.

The Asset didn’t know why. The Asset knew a lot of things without knowing how it knew them.

Iron Man didn’t notice the panel sagging. His eyes, brown and heavy-browed and incomprehensibly familiar, stared at the Asset’s face.

“ _Sergeant Barnes_?”

The glass gave way.

The Asset fell.

Before it hit the water, words formed somewhere in the whirling chaos behind the Asset’s eyes, shaping themselves in accordance with a long-forgotten accent.

_Fuckin’ finally._

[[PROBABLY A CHAPTER BREAK]]

The Asset hadn’t expected to survive the fall. The shock of water closing over its head prompted its body to struggle automatically, kicking towards the light in search of oxygen. Once it was breathing and treading water, extraction training kicked in.

The Asset dragged itself to shore and wove a muddy trail through the parks and back alleys of the city, concealing its passage on autopilot. It tore a strip off its undershirt to tie over the bullet wound in its thigh. Pursuers might have sniffer dogs. The Asset must avoid leaving a blood trail.

Iron Man’s parting words played on repeat.  _Sergeant Barnes?_  There was something right-but-not-right about Iron Man’s face, about the Widow’s face, something known-but-not-known.  _Stark_ , she had called him. His face, his voice, that name,  _Sergeant Barnes?_  The Asset’s head buzzed with dissonance.

The Asset didn’t expect to survive the confrontation with its handlers. The Asset had already known it was scheduled for decommissioning. The technicians routinely forgot how acute its hearing was and discussed forbidden topics where the Asset couldn’t help but overhear; it never drew attention to this in case it was punished for listening. The Asset had known before it even reached the helicarrier that this was to be its final mission. Its failure just proved the handlers right. It had grown unstable, erratic, ineffective. The Asset was a tool that had outlived its usefulness.

The Asset reported in because that was how all the its missions ended, and it didn’t know to do anything different in case of mission failure, but it wouldn’t have surprised the Asset to be greeted with a bullet to the brain as soon as it walked into the bank.

Instead, the five technicians in the vault nearly pissed themselves when the Asset appeared, silent as ever even though it couldn’t stand fully upright. Most of the broken ribs were on its right side where the beam had struck. Its abdomen felt worse than the the ribs, or the gunshot wound in its left thigh, but the Asset could feel its body already working to repair the damage. Soft tissue damage healed quickly. It would survive these injuries, if it was allowed to.

“M-mission report,” one of the technicians stammered. That wasn’t proper procedure, handlers were the ones who debriefed the Asset, but there were no handlers present to report to.

The Asset gave its report anyway. Anticipation of punishment was worse than pain, and it didn’t want to wait. It was going to be decommissioned anyway. What was a protocol violation compared to the mission failure it was about to recount?

The Asset’s summary of events made the technicians draw together in a frightened huddle. Two of them kept glancing at the door, either hopeful or worried about who might come through next. Another, the quietest and calmest, snuck two quick looks at the bulletin board the Asset knew concealed a wall safe containing cash and emergency supplies. The other two appeared to be in a state of shock.

“Fuck,” one whispered when the Asset finished. “The news was right. Shit, oh shit.”

“Does that mean Pierce is really dead?”

“The STRIKE teams haven’t checked in. If they were on the helicarriers–”

“They must be dead, too. Or arrested.”

“Christ, look at all these files.” One technician was at a computer, her face frantic as she typed. “They released everything.  _Everything_.”

“What about this address? Is this base burned?”

“Fuck, forget about the base, what about  _our_  addresses? Our names?”

“Stop trying to grab the keyboard, look on your own fucking computer!”

The technicians bickered while the Asset stood against the wall. Nobody had told it to do anything else.

The wait gave its ribs time to knit back together. The searing pain in its abdomen lessened, slowly fading into the deep ache of bruising instead of the acute fire of rupture. The Asset was extremely thirsty, but nobody had given it water. The gunshot wound in its thigh reopened as its body worked to expel the embedded bullet. Eventually the bullet dropped down its pant leg, resting on the top of its boot.

Its mind rattled. It  _hurt_ , conflicting thoughts grinding against each other, forbidden memories and whistling gaps. The chair would scrape the confusion away, but the chair–

The Asset didn’t like the chair.

The quietest technician wasn’t searching for information like the others. He was sitting at his desk, thinking, watching the other technicians. Watching the Asset. Sweat gathered at his temples and darkened his hair.

The Asset tracked his movements when the quiet technician pulled a pistol from a desk drawer.

The other technicians were facing away, arguing among themselves and distracted by their computers. Easy targets.

The armed technician killed the others. He was fast and fairly professional about it, needing no more than three bullets per target before they stayed down, but it was loud and messy all the same. The shots echoed in the enclosed space despite the vault’s sound-proofing, bleeding into one staccato cacophony.

The Asset watched silently as the technician swallowed hard and readjusted his grip on the pistol. He lowered it to his side.

“Asset,” the technician said. He pulled the bulletin board off the wall. “Open this safe.”

The Asset didn’t know the combination of the safe, but it was an older model and had never been built to stand up to a weapon like the Asset’s arm. One heave on the door handle pulled the entire safe from its wall housing. The movement reopened the Asset’s wounds, sending more acid through its abdomen and a rush of hot blood down its thigh, but the pain wasn’t mission relevant. It could be ignored.

The Asset threw the safe across the room. It smashed corner-first into the reinforced vault door and burst open, spilling its contents onto the floor.

“Jesus Christ! You crazy fucker.” The technician glared at the Asset. “There are  _grenades_  in there, fuck.”

The Asset felt a little indignant. The technician should have included this information in the mission briefing if he felt it was relevant. The watching part of the Asset, the part that eavesdropped on handlers and kept its conclusions to itself, thought that the technician was a poor substitute for a handler. He didn’t observe the proper protocols. Probably didn’t know the proper protocols.

 _Running scared_ , the watching part Asset thought. Pierce was dead. The STRIKE teams were dead or captured. Hydra’s files had been released to the world. Low-level Hydra agents would be running scared.

If there was one emotion the Asset could reliably recognize, one pattern of behavior it could predict, it was fear.

Who was authorized to command the Asset, with Pierce and Rumlow out of commission? Who was authorized to punish the Asset for mission failure? Who would issue corrections for disobedience?

The watching part of the Asset unfurled and stretched.

The technician glanced up from where he was kneeling by the safe, scooping bundled papers and bricks of cash into a paper bag. He jerked his chin at the Asset’s thigh, which was still oozing blood. “Can you fight with that?”

It was a stupid question. The Asset’s internal ruptures were far more limiting to mission performance than a mostly-healed flesh wound. But the technician had never ordered the Asset to report its full status, so he was unaware of the extent of the damage. Not a handler, the Asset reminded itself. Its pulse picked up with an emotion it couldn’t identify, something like the feeling of checking weapons before a firefight.

“Functional for moderate combat,” the Asset reported. It added, because the technician was clearly not going to think of it on his own, “Rehydration necessary.”

The technician took a coffee cup from one of the desks, filled it from the water cooler in the corner, and pressed it into the Asset’s hands. The Asset drained it quickly before it could be taken away. The water was cool and pleasantly tasteless, much better than the noxious river water it had swallowed earlier or the nutrient IVs it was usually given. Evidently there were advantages to not having a real handler.

The technician looked at the chair and frowned. The Asset’s grip on the coffee mug tightened, but the technician was a cryo specialist. He didn’t know how to use the chair, and he had just killed the technicians that did.

“Fuck it,” the technician muttered. He grabbed the bags of cash and weapons and jerked his head at the door. “Asset, move out.”

***

The technician waved the Asset into the passenger’s seat of one of the field vans, not the black one that rode heavy with armor plating, but the white one with “RUSTY’S PLUMBING - RESULTS GUARANTEED!” painted on its side in big, looping letters. He put the bags of cash and weapons into the back and tucked his pistol into a holster hidden under his blue windbreaker. He put on a headset and connected it to his phone before he started driving, pulling onto I-95 and heading north.

“Buckle your seat belt,” the technician ordered. The Asset complied. It was good to ride in the front of a vehicle, with a full range of vision for upcoming obstacles or threats. The trees lining the highway were pleasant to look at. The Asset occupied itself by memorizing the license plate of every car they passed.

The technician received a call after 22 minutes of driving.

“What?” the technician demanded. “No, I told you. Get the STRIKE teams out of lockup and meet me at the rendezvous in Trenton. Blow up the building if you have to, just stop them from getting transferred to somewhere more secure.” A pause, then the technician slammed his palm onto the top of the steering wheel. “ _Fuck_  your cover! Are you even listening to me? I cleaned out the base in D.C. I have the Asset. Shit, that’s enough to start a new cell right there. Your cover’s blown already. All our covers are blown, once they decode those files.” Another, longer pause. “Do whatever you have to do. Report in three hours.” The technician yanked off his headset and slumped back in his seat. “Fucking moron.”

The technician listened to the radio the entire drive, sometimes swearing or punching the dashboard as news anchors revealed a new piece of information. The Asset sat silently without giving any sign that it registered what was being said.

The radio gave names for Iron Man and the Black Widow: Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff. The names were right-but-wrong just like the faces.

 _Sergeant Barnes_. The news didn’t mention that name. The news didn’t mention the Asset at all, although it had a lot to say about Alexander Pierce and Nick Fury and SHIELD and Hydra and Natasha Romanov and Tony Stark. The Asset rolled the names through its mind, lost in thought. T _ony Stark. Sergeant Barnes. Natasha Romanoff._  Natasha, Natashenka, Nat…

The Asset couldn’t arrive at the correct name, but Nat recalled a child with red hair and a killer’s eyes. The Black Widow’s face in miniature.

 _Malfunction_ , the Asset thought automatically. It hadn’t been wiped in more than nine days, far longer than standard protocol. One of the technicians had complained to a handler about it and had been overruled. The Asset’s initial assassination of Fury, Nicholas J. had spawned unexpected, urgent follow-up missions as Hydra’s maneuvers were countered by SHIELD loyalists, and Rumlow had wanted the Asset to be field-ready at a moment’s notice.

Wipes kept mission-irrelevant memories at bay. The Asset was to report unauthorized memories to its handler at once, so the distractions could be properly removed.

The Asset had no handlers left to report to. The Asset said nothing. The watching part of the Asset approved. It wanted to wait and see what would happen.

The Asset was very good at waiting.

 

They stopped in Pennsylvania, just shy of the border with New Jersey. The technician left the Asset in the car while he pumped gas. Once the tank was full, the technician hovered by the car for a few moments, then opened the passenger-side door.

“Out,” the technician ordered. “We’re going inside. Stay behind me. Don’t say anything. Got it?”

“Confirm.” Standing up was a mix of pleasurable stretching of cramped muscles and painful pulling on wounds that hadn’t quite healed. The Asset’s abdomen felt hot and tender but essentially sound. Its thigh wound had closed and was forming scar tissue that would fade away within a week. The Asset could fight if it had to; it had pushed through injuries that were much worse.

The gas station was empty apart from a clerk at the desk who glanced up at the technician and the Asset, then went back to reading her magazine. The Asset shadowed the technician’s footsteps, taking a perverse pleasure in hiding in the technician’s blind spot, so the technician was constantly turning his head to catch sight of it.  _Malfunction_ , the Asset thought, just a little more smug than wary. The technician wasn’t a handler. The technician could hurt the Asset in the course of regular maintenance, when the Asset’s pain was incidental, but he didn’t have the authority to discipline it.

Whoever the technician was taking the Asset to might have that authority. Sobered by the thought, the Asset dropped back a few more paces. The radio had claimed that Alexander Pierce was dead, but there were others. There were always others.

[[TV playing in the corner shows driver’s license photos of suspected Hydra personnel that includes the technician; he sees the store clerk recognize him]]

“Shit,” the technician hissed, face twisting. He pulled his gun from the small of his back.

The clerk froze in place, her mouth opening in shock.

The Asset moved without knowing it was going to. Its flesh hand snatched the gun from the technician’s grip. The technician’s head snapped back as the Asset’s metal fist collided with its chin. The Asset heard the crack of bone.

The cashier screamed.

The technician was dead before he hit the floor.

The Asset separated the clip from the gun, set both of them on the floor, and left the gas station at a sprint.

[[disables tracker and whatever drug ampoules he can reach, manages to backtrack to Philly before collapsing to ride out the withdrawal]]

The Asset hadn’t expected to survive coming down from whatever drugs Hydra had used to keep it docile and compliant. At the worst stage of the withdrawal, when it was shaking, puking, and hallucinating in the basement of a condemned building, it had wished it was back in cryo, numb and frozen and not hurting. It would even have gone to the chair.

Two days later, it had crawled out of the basement, filthy and exhausted but more clear-headed than it could ever remember being.

The Asset was starting to feel a certain kinship with cockroaches.

 

The Asset spent more than a month just keeping low, moving only through shadows and sleeping once every three days, curling up on rooftops and in flophouses. Hydra didn’t find it. SHIELD didn’t find it. The Asset wasn’t sure there was any difference between the two, no matter what the radio had said, but either way, it wanted to avoid the interrogation Stark’s words had promised.

The Asset ruminated on Romanoff and Stark. It thought maybe Romanoff had been a fellow asset, and Stark had been a technician. Or maybe Stark was a stranger and Romanov an enemy. The Asset couldn’t decide, couldn’t seem to settle on a conclusion.

Neither of them had been a handler. The Asset was sure of that. Hydra had burned the memories of past missions out of its head, but they had made sure the Asset’s ability to recognize its betters was crystal fucking clear.

The Asset’s head ached constantly. Sometimes the pain was just a mild inconvenience, and sometimes it was incapacitating. It wasn’t clear whether to the Asset whether its brain was healing, or just turning to mush. The Asset had been eating mostly from trash cans. Its memories were incomplete at best, but it was certain people didn’t used to throw away so much food. Bruised fruit, stale bread, half-eaten hamburgers. Finding enough to sustain itself hadn’t been difficult.

The hand’s fingers did not open or close. The Asset had opened the forearm access panel and ripped out whatever it could reach, knowing that one of the components was a tracker and unable to distinguish which one. It had felt like fire burning up through the arm and into the shoulder, radiating agony down its back and up its neck into its skull, before the nervous system feedback had, mercifully, shorted out. The Asset could still raise the arm and rotate it at the elbow and shoulder, but the wrist and hand joints were locked in place.

It took weeks for the Asset to form anything approaching a plan. Taking care of basic needs like thirst and hunger were instinctual enough that the Asset could do them on autopilot, but it was out of the habit of thinking for itself.

[[Heads to Brooklyn like a homing pigeon; has vague memories of safety and belonging there. When he arrives, wanders disconsolately looking for where he used to live (without knowing that’s what he’s looking for), but can’t find it. The closest he can find is an alley, where he tries to sleep.]]

The Asset had been asleep with its head on the backpack. Tactical error. One of the boys must have pulled the backpack out by its straps. Now the backpack was four feet away, at the largest boy’s feet.

The three boys had frozen when the Asset swung upright, but as seconds passed while the Asset did nothing but stand rigidly still, they relaxed.

“Woah, easy there,” one of them said. He took a few steps away and looked at the mouth of the alley, either checking for pursuers or scouting an escape route.

“Relax, he’s just a fucking junkie,” the largest boy said quietly. Then, louder, “What’s in the backpack, man? You gonna share?”

The boy crouched beside the backpack, reaching for the zipper.

The Asset could kill him so easily, even with one malfunctioning hand. The steps were as clear as a roadmap: immobilize shoulder, grasp head, twist, drop. It would take less than a second.

The thought made its stomach churn. The Asset held itself rigid, every muscle locked in place, afraid that moving would lead to another body at its feet.

“Hey!” A new boy, his hair startlingly bright in the gloom of the alley, charged forward from the alley’s other end. He stepped in between the Asset and the threat and puffed up like an angry goose. His baggy coat and overstuffed backpack made him appear larger than his thin legs suggested he was. “Leave him alone!”

“Alex,” the third boy muttered, tugging on the largest boy’s sleeve. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Alex shrugged the hand off. He was half a foot taller than the boy standing challengingly in front of him. “We were just talking. What’s it to you?”

“You need to leave,” the blond boy said, voice hard. “You can’t just take people’s stuff.”

“Fuck you, I’ll go when I want to,” Alex retorted. “And I want to see what’s in the backpack first.”

Alex reached for the backpack’s zipper, but the blond boy slapped his hand away before he could touch it.

Enraged, Alex drew back his fist.

The Asset moved.

Alex’s punch landed full force on the Asset’s metal arm, sending a ringing vibration through its shoulder. Alex howled and pulled his hand back to his chest.

“You fucking–”

“Come on, Alex!” the second boy shouted. The third was already running. Alex let himself be pulled out of the alley, and within seconds the Asset was alone with the blond boy.

On closer inspection, the boy wasn’t a boy at all. He was short, no more than five and a half feet, but his voice was deep and his face had no trace of baby fat. The Asset estimated the man was in his mid-twenties.

“Sorry you had to deal with those guys,” the man said. He took a few steps back, leaving the Asset standing over its backpack. “I know one of them, he’s not so bad, but his cousin is a total dick. Are you all right? That sounded like a pretty hard punch.“ The man reached out and ran both hands up the Asset’s left arm. The Asset didn’t allow itself to flinch away.

The man’s hands squeezed gently, paused, squeezed more firmly. "Wow, that’s–” His eyes went wide and his hands dropped away from the arm. He held them spread at chest height for a moment, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed your arm without asking. That was not okay, geez.”

The Asset had no idea what was going on, but the man seemed upset, which made it nervous. Things didn’t go well when people around the Asset were upset.

It slowly picked up the backpack. When the man didn’t do anything but watch, the Asset settled the backpack straps over its shoulders, feeling more secure.

The man reached his pocket and the Asset tensed. It calculated the hang of the jacket and the size of the pocket bulge automatically; not heavy enough for a gun, but a knife could be small and light, or a taser–

He pulled out a rectangle wrapped in blue foil. “Are you hungry? I have an energy bar. It’s, uh.” He flipped the bar over and squinted in the dim light. “Blueberry lemon flavored. You want any?”

The man half-unwrapped the bar and handed it to the Asset. The Asset took it and bit, tentatively. It was chalky and sweet. Blueberry lemon, it thought, memorizing the taste.

“Not bad, right?“ the man said. "That was my last one, sorry. Are you still hungry?”

The Asset knew better than to admit to a weakness, but the man seemed to know anyway. He just kept talking.

“I know a church near here that has food, usually, and a place to sleep if you don’t mind waking up with the bells. We could go there now, if you want.”

The Asset thought about this. It had to sleep somewhere, and evidently the alley wasn’t safe. The blond man wasn’t a threat. If the church was a trap, the Asset could run.

The Asset nodded, and the man smiled.

“Great! It’s a little over a mile, are you okay to walk that? Oh!” He smacked his forehead, making the Asset startle. “I forgot to introduce myself, sorry. My name’s Steve.”

 

Steve couldn’t stop sneaking sideways glances at the man walking to his left, trailing a half step behind Steve with his head ducked low. How he could see where he was going through that curtain of hair, Steve had no idea, but the man cut through dark alleys with the sure-footed grace of a leopard.

 _Steve_ was the one in danger of tripping over his own feet like a moron. It would be just his luck to get so distracted by gawking at the absurdly graceful homeless dude that he’d trip and fall into a pile of garbage.

He still couldn’t believe he’d just grabbed the guy’s arm without even asking first. The punch had sounded so metallic that Steve had worried the asshole would-be mugger had been wearing brass knuckles, but as soon as he’d touched the guy’s arm he’d realized it was a prosthetic.

The guy was probably a vet; he had the same thousand-yard stare that Steve had seen on guys in Sam’s group. Steve was lucky he hadn’t gotten punched for grabbing him. Combat reflexes were no joke.

“Saint Patrick’s is just up ahead. If the front door is locked we can go in through the side, Father Lantom won’t mind. There’s usually a casserole or something in the fridge. People bring in food all the time, especially widows, or parents whose kids have gone off to college. They get used to cooking extra, you know? It’s not like you can make a single serving of lasagna.”

Oh, great, he was babbling. Well, better babbling than silence, under the circumstances. The guy still hadn’t said a word. He was edgy, hypervigilant, looking around every few seconds and tracking the movement of people and cars. Steve half expected him to bolt before they got to the church.

He’d devoured the energy bar in under ten seconds, though, so Steve figured talking about food might help keep him interested. Steve kept up a running patter about pie, tomato soup, and tater tots until they got to Saint Patrick’s cathedral. The front door was locked, so they detoured to the side entrance.

“The offices with computers and stuff are locked at night,” Steve explained, fumbling in his pockets for the door key. Father Lantom had given it to him years ago, when Steve had gotten involved with the church’s queer youth group and started bringing other teen runaways by at all hours of the night. “But we can raid the fridge, and you can bed down in the rec room if you want. There’s a bathroom, but no shower, sorry.”

The man surprised Steve by stepping in front of him as soon as the door was open. He blocked the doorway, turning his head slowly to take in the whole room, before he moved aside to let Steve in. Once Steve closed and locked the door behind them, the man resumed walking a half step behind Steve.

 _Security sweep_. Definitely a vet.

“There shouldn’t be anyone else around,” Steve assured him. The man nodded, but his eyes kept moving, noting windows and doors. How long had it been since he’d seen combat? His hair was long enough to tie back, so it must have been a while since his last regulation haircut. His facial hair was an even, all-over scruff, a month or two of growth.

Steve led him into the kitchen, a room with pleasant yellow wallpaper and a long table tucked against the wall. The man closed all the curtains before standing with his back flat against the wall, out of sight from the doorway.

He looked both better and worse in the brighter light. His skin was sallow and waxy, and it was clear that he’d been sleeping in his clothing for at least a few days, but Steve also guiltily noticed his cheekbones and the set of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders and the firm length of his thighs. _Don’t be creepy, Rogers. You gonna feed the guy or just stare at him?_

Steve opened the fridge and grinned. “Hey, whaddaya know, there’s actually lasagna! Have a seat, I’ll grab plates.”

At his first bite, the man’s impassive facade slipped. His eyes widened and his chewing slowed for a moment, then sped up dramatically. Even as he swallowed, he was loading his fork with another bite.

“‘S good, isn’t it?” Steve said, through his own mouthful of lasagna.

The man nodded. Within five minutes, he had finished off his piece and was running his fork along the pool of tomato sauce and ricotta at the bottom of his plate, scraping up every bit and licking the fork clean.

“You can have another piece,” Steve said, kicking himself for not thinking to say it earlier. “If you’re still hungry.”

The man stilled, looking back and forth between his empty plate and the pan of lasagna. He didn’t move.

“Can I give you some more?” Steve asked. The man licked his lips, eyes darting to Steve and then back to his empty plate.

That was a yes, probably. Steve cut out a huge slab of lasagna and dumped it on his plate. If the man didn’t finish it, Steve could polish it off himself.

The man tore into it immediately, obviously still starving. How long had it been since he’d had a decent meal? Did he know how to find food pantries and shelters? There was a shelter a couple miles from the alley where he’d been, but it was usually full by sundown. Too many people, not enough beds.

“Have you been in town long?” Steve asked. The man shook his head without pausing his chewing. “I can show you around tomorrow, if you want. I was planning to go to the VA in the morning to see a friend.” Steve had been planning no such thing--he had intended to set up a sketching station in Central Park and sell caricatures to tourists, if the weather was good--but Sam’s group met tomorrow.

The man didn’t respond. Well, it wasn’t an immediate no. Steve could ask again tomorrow.

That just left the question of what to do tonight. Steve didn’t really know this guy. He didn’t get a threatening vibe from the man, despite the bulk of him, but Steve had been told by everybody and their mothers that his sense of caution was laughably underdeveloped.

He probably shouldn’t be alone with a stranger in an isolated building when nobody knew he was there at all, but what was Steve supposed to do, leave the guy in an alley to get harassed? He was just quietly eating lasagna, for Chrissakes. (Steve winced and crossed himself quickly; he was in a church, for Chr--for shit’s sake.) Besides, Steve owed him for taking that punch.

Steve refilled the man’s place twice more before “Do you want more?” got him a head shake instead of silence. He washed both plates and forks in the sink and dried them off with paper towels. The man stood by the door, silent as always. It made Steve’s neck itch a bit to know he was being watched, even if it was just the impersonal observation of someone standing guard.

“Do you, um.” Steve dried off his hands and picked up the stack of scrap paper on the fridge. “Do you want to write anything out? Like a message, so we can talk? You don’t have to.”

The man visibly hesitated before shaking his head.

“That’s fine. I have pen and paper in my backpack, so if you ever want to write something, just let me know, okay? Or if you want to draw, or whatever. I draw a lot, so.” Steve bit the inside of his cheek, trying to stem his babbling. _Nice, Rogers, you gonna offer to show him your etchings?_

It had just been a long time since he’d gotten to talk this much. Even when he’d been couch surfing with friends, most of his attention was focused on not taking up too much space, being polite and helpful and unobtrusive. He had tried to spend most of his days elsewhere, sneaking in or out while everyone else was at work or asleep. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to just sit and talk with someone without worrying that he was annoying them.

“Is it bothering you?” Steve asked. “Me talking? I can be quiet, if you want.”

A quick, definitive head shake. Steve felt his shoulders loosen.

“Okay, good.” Steve was probably smiling too widely, but he couldn’t help it. He was full of lasagna and he wasn’t alone. That was a good start. Now what?

“Now what?” he said aloud. “There’s a bathroom through there if you want to get cleaned up. There should be some new toothbrushes in the cabinet.”

 

Steve got a stack of blankets out from the rec room closet while the man was in the bathroom. It brought back vivid memories of making up a bed on the very same sofa when he was a teenager, just seventeen but full of bossy advice for kids who were a year or two younger. And now he had scooped up a full-grown adult, too, and hectored him into the same position. Some things never changed.

The water in the bathroom ran for a long time. Steve tried not to hover. He sat on the end of the sofa opposite the pillows, clicked on the rec room’s ancient TV, and found a channel playing infomercials that looked promisingly neutral.

 

 _Safety first, Rogers_ , Steve thought, in a voice that sounded a lot like Sam's. He shouldn't sleep alone with someone he didn't know, but he couldn't kick the other guy out, not when he clearly needed somewhere safe to spend the night. Steve could get him settled and then walk to the subway. With any luck he could slip through the turnstiles after someone else and nap on the train.

A nap would be good. Helping his housesitting friends pack had taken more out of him than he'd thought, and knowing it would be his last night somewhere comfortable and safe until lord knew when had made it hard to sleep (and wasn't that ironic). Steve was exhausted.

He'd get going in a minute, as soon as this infomercial was over. The other man was still and quiet on his end of the couch. It couldn't hurt to stay with him a little longer

Steve would get up in just a minute.

 

Steve was asleep.

The Asset had relaxed enough to rest against the back of couch instead of perching on the edge. Its position allowed for easy surveillance of the room’s exits and the other end of the couch where Steve was slumped under the blanket.

Steve had driven the boys in the alley away. Steve had given the Asset food. Steve had brought the Asset to a warm place to sleep. Steve gave suggestions instead of orders. Steve had talked and talked and talked in a calm, friendly voice that was nothing like what the Asset had heard from its handlers.

Steve was nothing like a handler.

The Asset thought Steve might be an ally. It felt familiar, in a distant way, to eat with someone, and talk, and sleep in the same place, with no orders and no punishments. It hadn’t had an ally in a long time.

The Asset didn’t understand why Steve had decided the Asset was an ally, but it hoped he wouldn’t change his mind. Steve was useful. Steve had access to lasagna.

This quiet room, with locked doors in between the Asset and the elements and an ally sleeping on the sofa, was the safest place the Asset had been since its escape.

Steve shifted further down onto the couch, his socked feet sliding out from the end of the blanket.

The Asset pulled the blanket down over Steve’s toes and tucked the edge under with a feeling of satisfaction. It settled down onto its corner of the couch and resumed keeping watch.

The Asset protected its allies.

 

Sam clocked the new vet as soon as he came through the door. Easily six feet tall, moving like a fighter, lean but solid under baggy, dirty clothes. He was so busy evaluating the sudden potential threat that he overlooked the man who came in with him until Steve was standing right in front of him.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Steve!” Sam wanted to go in for a hug, but he also didn’t want to take his eyes off the other man until he knew what the situation was. The man was standing completely still by the doors, eyes roving without pause over the VA’s entryway. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been around,” Steve said. “I was visiting a friend in a different neighborhood for a while.”

Sam had no trouble translating “visiting a friend” to “sleeping on a friend’s couch.” It had taken months for Steve to admit he’d gotten evicted from his apartment, and even then he had downplayed it.

 

This guy was in a bad way. Sam cataloged his behavior automatically, his dispassionate clinical evaluation existing side-by-side with his mounting concern. Hypervigilance. Flat affect. Poor hygiene. Difficulty with speech. Possible traumatic brain injury.

The vet was staring at the rack of informational pamphlets by the door. His eyes flicked to the sign above the rack that said “Please take one” and then back to the pamphlets. Carefully, he reached out and took a pamphlet from the stack on the top left, looking sideways at Sam and Steve as he did so. When nobody said anything, he took the next pamphlet over, and the next, until he had one of each, everything from “Soothing Sleep: Tips and Techniques for Dealing with Nightmares” to “Breastfeeding: Rights and Resources.”

Sam didn’t say a word. Maybe the guy needed information and didn’t want anyone to know which pamphlet he actually wanted to read, or maybe he just wanted paper for something; either way, it wasn’t something Sam was going to make a fuss over.

 

Sam had been a soldier, too, had seen more than enough action of his own, and his battle-won instincts were _screaming_ at him that this guy was dangerous. Every movement he made was calculated and efficient, no energy wasted. Each slow, deliberate step he took kept his weight perfectly balanced, ready to respond to a sudden attack. Sam would bet his entire pension that this guy was career black ops.

“Did he give you a name?” Sam asked.

“No.” Steve chewed on his lower lip. “He hasn’t said anything, or written anything out. Maybe I should try signing?”

“Can’t hurt.”

Steve walked over to the vet, circling around into his line of sight rather than tapping his shoulder to get his attention. He gave the man a warm smile and signed as he spoke. “Do you know ASL? I know a little.”

The vet shook his head. He was watching Steve attentively, with far more interest than he’d shown in anything else so far. Sam wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

Sam walked up slowly, giving the guy time to look him over.

“This is Sam,” Steve said. “He’s one of the counselors here.”

“Hey there, good to meet you.” Sam didn’t try to shake hands. A lot of vets had issues with casual touch.

Steve shifted close enough to the vet that his jacket brushed the man’s hip. The vet didn’t tense up or otherwise react, to Sam’s surprise. “He’s new in town, so I’m showing him around.”

“Have you been to a VA before?” Sam asked him. The man shook his head. “That’s okay. You can come by anytime. Let me tell you a little bit about what we do here, and what we can help you with.”

Sam gave him the standard run-down of VA services, keeping his language simple and straight to the point. The vet avoided eye contact, watching the exits and Steve instead, but Sam was pretty sure he was listening.

“If you ever need something when we’re not open, Steve has my cell number, he can give it to you,” he added on impulse. Usually Sam didn’t give out his personal number to people who weren’t actually his clients, but this guy was setting off all kinds of alarm bells, and Sam knew he’d be worrying about him either way. “How does that sound?”

The vet just looked at him.

 _Good talk_ , Sam thought wryly. “All right, man. Take care of yourself. We’ll be here if you need anything.”

The vet ducked his head in what might have been a nod.

 

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Steve.” Sam waited until Steve made eye contact. “I know you want to help this guy, but make sure you look out for yourself, too. I know you can handle yourself, but this guy is dangerous.”

Steve stared at Sam like he was speaking a foreign language. “He’s not gonna hurt me, Sam.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Sam said gently. “I’m not saying don’t help him. I’m just saying--be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

That was such a lie Sam didn’t even say anything in response, just raised his eyebrows. Steve smiled at him reassuringly--like _Sam_ was the one being unreasonable--and left the VA with the vet trailing after him like a loose panther.

Sam watched them go, noting again that the vet was twice Steve’s size, and tried to convince himself that his worry was unwarranted. When that didn’t work, he added a note to his calendar to check in with Steve over the weekend. It might be paranoid, but it couldn’t hurt to follow up and make sure Steve and his new friend were both doing okay.

 

[[Steve hears about a room opening up in Clint’s building via someone in his network (this is immediately after the tracksuit mafia attack in the Fraction!Hawkeye comics, so there are a bunch of rooms open), takes Bucky there, starts coming down with something that evening.]]

“Is there something I can call you?” Steve asked. “It’s totally cool if you want to keep your real name private, it would just be easier if I had a name for you in my head.”

The man’s eyes flicked rapidly over the room, like he was checking the exits. Steve was about to apologize and tell him to forget it when the man picked up the whiteboard marker. He erased the board and wrote five letters.

“Bucky? Okay, great. Nice to meet you, Bucky. I’m Steve. Which, uh, you knew already, I guess.” Steve managed to cut off his stammering, but couldn’t hold back the mortifying blush staining his cheeks.

Bucky _smiled_. It was a tiny smile, but it made Steve feel two feet taller.

 

“No, I gotta--” Steve gave up trying to sit and sagged back onto the bed. “I gotta take my meds.”

The Asset kept its hand on Steve’s chest long enough to give him a meaningful look. _Stay_.

Steve rolled his eyes, but stayed put while the Asset fished around in Steve’s backpack. It found three bottles of pills and two inhalers.

“Need the Atenolol, iron supplements, and blue inhaler,” Steve mumbled. The Asset handed him the inhaler and went to get a glass of water for the pills.

 

“Neat,” Steve said drowsily. His hand hovered over the seam where metal met flesh, but he pulled his fingers back before they could touch. “How do you take it off?”

The Asset shook its head.

“It doesn’t come off?” Steve frowned, suddenly looking upset. “It looks really heavy. It’s grafted on? Does it hurt?”

Not as much as other things. The Asset paused, then shook its head again. Steve looked unconvinced.

“I have metal too,” he said suddenly, rolling onto his stomach. The Asset rescued the cup of water before it tipped over and set it on the nightstand. “See?”

Steve rucked his shirt up to his shoulders, exposing pale skin dotted with copper freckles. A scar was laid rail-straight over his spine.

“Scoliosis,” Steve mumbled. “They had to fuse the bone to straighten it out. It’s still crooked, but way less than before. I’ve got metal rods on either side, and a bunch of screws and shit. You can touch it if you want. It doesn’t hurt.”

The Asset laid its right hand on Steve’s back, letting its fingers skim over the scar. It was a thick white line flanked by white dots on either side. Marks from the incision and the staples used to close it.

The Asset didn’t press hard enough to feel whether bone or metal was beneath its fingers. Steve’s skin was warm and soft. He was so achingly vulnerable like this, sprawled on his belly and relaxed under the Asset’s hand. Trusting the Asset not to hurt him.

All to show the Asset that, in this small way, the Asset wasn’t alone. Warm, thick pressure built in its throat.

Steve started snoring. The Asset swallowed hard, pulled Steve’s shirt back down, and rolled him onto his side to open his airways.

  
  
Hot water could help with illness like this. The Asset went into the bathroom and started the water running.

The water took a long time to go from freezing to cool to lukewarm. The Asset waited until the water was as hot as it was going to get, then plugged the tub and let it fill right up to the brim. The steam wafted out of the bathroom and throughout the apartment, warming and humidifying the air.

The Asset checked on Steve--still deeply asleep--and went down to the basement.

 

Someone was coming down the stairs, placing their feet carefully in an amateurish attempt to be stealthy. The Asset melted into the shadows and stopped breathing.

The figure moved slowly into the light of the single bare ceiling bulb. It was a teenager, perhaps sixteen, holding a baseball bat raised over her shoulder. She was squinting suspiciously into the basement’s dark corners.

“Hey, assholes,” she called, voice steady. “You don’t own this building anymore, and if you don’t get the fuck out I’m calling the cops.”

The Asset hesitated. The girl was a resident reacting to a perceived threat. The Asset could slip out the window before the girl ever saw its face, hotwire a car, and be two states over by sundown.

But that would require leaving Steve, sick in bed upstairs, alone and unprotected.

Instead, the Asset hunched its shoulders, trying to make itself look as small and unthreatening as possible. The Asset stepped into the light with its head ducked.

“Oh, hey,” the girl said, relaxing. She let the bat dangle at her side. “You’re Steve’s friend, right?”

Was that true? Cautiously, the Asset nodded.

“Sorry, man, I thought you were one of the tracksuits. I’m Lola. What are you doing down here?”

The Asset held up the toolbox it had found and jerked its chin at the water heater.

“The hot water’s been crappy for years. You think you can fix it?”

The Asset shrugged and crouched beside it, opening the toolbox. It mostly held identical wrenches and drill bits with no drill, but that was enough to start with.  

Lola watched over the Asset’s shoulder while it worked. She kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation, leaving pauses, but always picking up the thread when the gaps were met with silence.

The Asset gained a lot of valuable intelligence about the building and its occupants. The landlord was frequently absent and generally incompetent, based on Lola’s complaints about the building’s state of disrepair, but also “a nice guy, not like those tracksuit assholes we had before.” Perfect. Competent landlords evicted squatters. Lazy, soft-hearted landlords probably wouldn’t bother unless the squatters caused trouble.

The Asset wouldn’t cause any trouble. The Asset would find ways to be useful, starting with fixing the water heater. It had done something similar, a long time ago, sanding down wooden steps and repairing creaky plumbing in exchange for landlords looking the other way when it bedded down in attics and root cellars. Labor was always valuable.

The Asset rolled to its feet and stretched. The heater’s temperature gauge was back into the expected range, and the pressure looked good. Lola followed the Asset up the stairs and into the apartment.

They both hovered expectantly over the kitchen sink as the Asset turned the hot water handle. The faucet gurgled and spat out steaming water. The Asset felt bone-deep satisfaction.

“Hey, you did it!” Lola said. She shifted the baseball bat to her left hand and held up her right in a loose fist. After a moment the Asset recognized the protocol and held its own fist up so Lola could tap it.

“Awesome. I’m going to go take the longest bubble bath in the history of indoor plumbing. See you around!” She jogged out of the apartment, bat thumping the floor on every other step.

Lola had talked to the Asset like a person, and followed it into the apartment without wariness or trepidation. The show of trust made the Asset feel both warm and concerned. Lola was kind; kindness could be taken advantage of, if extended to the wrong person.

The Asset mentally added Lola to its list of people to look out for, just below Steve.

 

Over the next several days, the list of people the Asset was looking out for got longer and longer. Lola knocked on his door the day after the water heater was fixed, telling the Asset that there were a few more things that needed fixing around the building, and would the Asset mind taking a look?

First there were Margaret and Daisy in 1A, whose carpet was starting to peel away from the doorway and catch in the rubber feet on Margaret's walker, until the Asset trimmed the loose carpet strands and nailed it back down. Daisy had made cookies while the Asset worked, then insisted the Asset and Lola eat most of the batch.

Then there were Rachelle, Isaac, and Sulagna, grad students in 3C, who chatted and watched with great interest as the Asset unclogged their bathroom sink and fixed a leak in their shower. They had thanked the Asset profusely and handed over boxes of pop-tarts and instant ramen as payment.

 

In the end, the Asset gave up and drew a mental circle around the whole building. This was the Asset’s territory and its people to defend.

It felt good, familiar, to have something to protect. The Asset had a hazy memory of [[Carter seen through a sniper scope flashback, enemies falling around her]]. The Asset had been an avenging angel, before its fall, before [[train fall flashback]].

It came to in a ball under the stairs, flesh hand gripping the bannister as the wood creaked under its hand.

 

[[content warning for the section below for a dream memory about past sex work done by pre-war Bucky shading into a dream memory of Hydra doing dental work on the Asset, not explicitly violent but very creepy]]

_He'd rather not be out in the rain, would rather be home in bed catching a solid night's sleep before his shift unloading boxes and stacking oranges at the grocer's, but Becca had outgrown all her dresses and Maggie's cough had lasted three weeks now. There wasn't money for new clothes and medicine and food for five on the table, not with just his wages, so Bucky was out walking the docks, waiting to catch someone's eye._

_He lucked out and pulled a real gentleman, a fella who didn't yank his hair or call him names while Bucky was on his knees, just cupped the back of Bucky's head and swore admiringly. "Christ, you've got a pretty mouth."_

_"I wish we could cut out its tongue," a different voice said. Bucky wasn't on his knees anymore, was on his back with his wrists and ankles and neck in restraints, a clamp holding his jaw open so they could work on his teeth. Struggling was useless, but he couldn't help it. He knew what came next and the fear was blinding._

_A second voice tsked. "It has to be able to give reports. If what it says bothers you so much, wear earplugs."_

_"It isn't so much what it says," the first voice said, wheedling. "It's the screaming. It gives me a headache."_

_"Cutting out its tongue wouldn't help with that anyway. Hand me that tray, would you?"_

_"Please," the Asset tried to say, but its jaw was fixed in place and all it could do was close its eyes tight--_

The Asset woke with a knife in its hand. The hand was shaking. That was unacceptable.

It had been dreaming. Dreaming was a very severe malfunction. If its handlers found out--if its handlers--

There were no handlers, not anymore. There was nobody to report to, nobody who would know. The Asset pushed itself further back into the corner and let itself shake.

Steve was asleep on the bed. The Asset noted the time. In two hours, it would be time for Steve’s morning medications.

 

On the third day in the apartment, someone knocked on the door.

The Asset had cleaned the fogged-over peephole earlier, and had also planted a concealed camera in the door frame of the opposite apartment. Peepholes were easy to block, and it was always useful to see the front and back of any potential attackers.

The man knocking was Sam Wilson. The Asset opened the door.

Sam smiled tightly. He was holding himself ready for a fight.

“Hey,” Sam said. “Steve hasn’t been around for a few days. You know anything about that?”

The Asset stepped away from the doorway and walked to the bedroom, knowing Sam would follow.

Steve was still asleep, but breathing much easier than he had been yesterday. The Asset laid its flesh hand lightly on his forehead to check his temperature, careful not to wake him.

“Steve?” Sam said loudly. “Steve, are you okay?”

The Asset glared at the back of Sam’s head while he leaned over Steve. Steve needed to _sleep_.

“Sam?” Steve murmured. He opened bleary eyes and tried to sit up, the effort making him cough immediately. The Asset put its hand on his shoulder to gently pin him in place.

“Don’t get up,” Sam said. “You sound awful. Have you been sick this whole time?”

“Whaddya mean?” Steve accepted the sippy cup of lukewarm tea the Asset handed him, though he wrinkled his nose at the Mickey Mouse design. “What day is it?”

“It’s Tuesday. You’ve been pretty out of it, huh? Your phone must have fifty missed calls.”

“Oh, shit. Oh shit!” Steve sat bolt upright, much to the Asset’s annoyance, and looked around wildly for his phone. “I was supposed to walk Eli to the clinic on Monday.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam soothed. “Riley went with them. It was fine. Take it easy.”

Steve was coughing again, inhaling in choppy drags before his irritated lungs spasmed and expelled the air. The Asset put a hand on his back and applied pressure, giving Steve something to push against as he breathed in.

“Thanks,” Steve said, when he could draw a full breath. He gave the Asset a plaintive look. “Phone?”

The Asset nodded and went to retrieve Steve’s phone from the front room. The Asset had buried it under a couch cushion when it wouldn’t stop ringing and beeping, but it had been quiet for the last two days. Out of battery. The Asset dug around in Steve’s backpack for the charger.

While the Asset rummaged in the other room, Sam quietly interrogated Steve, unaware that the Asset could still hear them through the wall.

“You scared me, man. Disappearing like that.”

“Sorry, Sam. I thought it was just a cold.”

“You always think it’s just a cold.”

“Well, most of the time it is!”

“And you were you okay here with--” Sam hesitated noticeably. “Your new friend?”

“ _Yes_ , Sam.” The Asset was fairly sure Steve had just rolled his eyes. “He didn’t try anything funny. Unless you count putting dry mustard in my socks, that was pretty weird.”

“What?”

The Asset sniffed. Mustard powder improved circulation and warmed the skin, and warm feet warded off illness. That was just common sense. It wasn’t the Asset’s fault if Steve didn’t appreciate the value of mustard.

“But he was actually really helpful,” Steve continued. “He made me soup and brought me my meds. Oh, and he started writing messages! He even gave me a name to call him. I’ll ask if it’s okay to tell you what it is.”

The Asset stopped short just outside the bedroom door. It hadn’t occurred to the Asset that Steve would withhold intelligence on the Asset from his friends until the Asset gave permission. Its throat was tight again.

 

“Hey,” Sam said quietly. “I wanted to say sorry for being belligerent earlier. I was just worried about Steve. He doesn’t usually drop off the grid like that.”

The Asset nodded. It didn’t mind Sam’s suspicion; suspicion was a healthy response. It was good that Steve had people looking out for him.

“He gets sick like this every year, and usually he tries to tough it out until it gets so bad he collapses or gets pneumonia or something. You did a really good job taking care of him, so thanks for that.”

 

“Have you been sleeping on the floor?” Steve asked, horrified.

Bucky tensed up and looked down before he nodded.

“You don’t have to do that! This is your place, I’m not taking your bed.” Steve threw off the covers and sat up, only to be abruptly stopped by a hand on his chest. Bucky could move _fast_ when he wanted to.

Bucky uncapped the marker and scribbled on the whiteboard. _YOUR apartment. Your bed._

“I told you, it’s not my apartment.”

Bucky ignored that entirely. _You’re sick. You get the bed._

Steve narrowed his eyes. “We can rotate. I just slept here for four nights, so now it’s your turn.” Steve had no intention of switching back after four nights, but that would give him time to think of something else. Maybe he’d be in a different squat by then anyway.

Bucky narrowed his eyes right back and shook his head vigorously, and oh, that was new. This was way more emotion than he had been showing before. Steve would feel happy for him as soon as Bucky stopped being so goddamn stubborn and just _took the bed_.

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor again while I’m in a bed! If you sleep on the floor, then so do I.”

Bucky thought this over, nibbling the cap of the whiteboard marker. Watching his mouth move was distracting enough that Steve had a hard time keeping ahold of his righteous ire.

_We could share the bed._

That was a bad idea. That was a very, very--

“Okay,” Steve said.

 

Bucky was back to being completely still, head down, like he was waiting for--for Steve to yell or hit him or something awful. Steve sat on the edge of the bed instead, making himself even shorter. Bucky’s eyes tracked the movement.

“Bucky,” Steve said softly, “can you help me understand what’s upsetting you?”

Bucky scuffed his feet on the carpet. At first Steve thought he was ducking the question, but then he realized Bucky was still wearing his boots. Steve had never actually seen him without his boots.

"Okay," Steve said. "We can figure this out. You want to sleep with your boots on?"

Bucky nodded.

“That’s fine with me.”

Lines appeared in Bucky’s forehead. He picked up one foot and dug his fingers into the treads of his boot, sending dried flakes of mud spiraling down to the carpet, and Steve suddenly understood.

"You don't want them to get the bed dirty?"

This nod was more definite.

"Okay," Steve said, keeping his tone as matter-of-fact as possible. "So we can wash the outside of the boots, and put a towel down at the end of the bed. You can sleep with your feet out from under the covers, and your feet won't get cold, because your boots will keep them warm."

Bucky thought about that, then gave a slow nod.

[[Steve kneels on the bathmat while Bucky sits on the edge of the tub and cleans his boots off. Makes him feel a little better about the sick patient routine, to be doing something for Bucky in return, even something as weirdly intimate as this, “although maybe ‘intimate’ was a stretch when he was still separated from Bucky’s skin by a solid quarter inch of rubber.”]]

Steve was scrubbing the grit out of Bucky's boot treads with his fingertips when he started laughing. He laughed so hard he had to set the boot down and brace himself on the floor with one hand. Bucky leaned forward, eyebrows raised in interest.

"Sorry. It's not even that funny, I just--have you ever heard the bible story about Mary Magdalen washing Jesus' feet before the crucifiction? I don't know why, I just thought of it. First time I've ever washed someone else's feet, I guess, and it just struck me as sacrilegious." Steve's last giggle turned into a cough. Bucky rested a hand on his shoulder, helping him balance, until Steve caught his breath. "Anyway. I'm just being dramatic. My friends tell me it's kind of my thing."

 

The Asset looked at the ceiling. He didn't sleep. He thought about hot water and towels and gentle hands and being clean. He thought about miracles.

 

The Asset was having trouble sleeping.

Steve wasn’t the problem. He was a solid presence beside the Asset, his whistling breaths a constant reassurance. Steve was here; Steve wanted the Asset to be here. The problem was the bed.

When Steve had been upset with the Asset for sleeping on the floor, the Asset’s first assumption had been that Steve was mad at the Asset for sleeping at all. _The Asset did not sleep._

Sleeping in the corner had been similar enough to the upright naps it had taken on long ops that it hadn’t caused too much dissonance. Those naps hadn’t been sanctioned, exactly, but even the Asset couldn’t go more than a few days without rest, and its handlers had known that.

 _The Asset did not sleep. The Asset did not dream._ The Asset definitely didn’t lie on beds, but here the Asset fucking was, because the Asset wasn’t really the Asset, not anymore. Assets didn’t eat lasagna or fix old ladies’ carpets or make sick people soup, either, and it had done all that and more.

 _No handlers_ , the Asset reminded itself. _New rules._

In some of its dreams, in the memories of Before, the Asset was a person. Steve treated the Asset like a person. So had Sam, and so had Lola, and everyone else in the building.

The Asset wasn’t sure how to be a person again, but--it could try. It had completed impossible missions before. What was one more?

The Asset opened its eyes and took a very deep breath.

Bucky exhaled, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

 

“Good morning.”

Bucky looked back at him. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were more focused than usual.

“Good morning,” Bucky echoed.

Steve was so shocked he nearly fell off the bed. Bucky caught his arm as he slipped, pulling Steve more securely onto the mattress, and then Bucky _laughed_.

Sure, he was laughing at Steve flailing around like an idiot, but Steve couldn’t have given less of a shit, because Bucky’s laugh was _amazing_. Objectively it sounded kind of awful--it was scratchy and stuttered like it was scraping against Bucky’s throat the whole way up--but the warmth of it curled through Steve’s body like smoke from a campfire.

“Wow, good morning,” Steve said, and started laughing, too. “Sorry, I don’t know why that’s all I can say right now.”

“‘S okay,” Bucky said. “Makes it easy for me. Gives me time to catch up.”

Bucky’s words were slow but deliberate. Steve wondered how long it had been since he’d last spoken aloud. It didn’t seem right to ask.

“Hungry?” Steve asked. “I can make pancakes.”

“You should stay in bed.”

Steve tried to scowl, but he was so warm and sleepy that it probably came out closer to a pout. “I’m sick, not dead. I can stir a bowl of pancake batter.”

Bucky thought about that. Steve took a moment to admire the way his bedhead was backlit by golden sunlight, framing him with a ragged halo.

Christ, Steve had it bad. Rhapsodizing over bedhead? _Get a grip, Rogers_.

“You stir,” Bucky conceded. “I flip.”

“Deal.”

Steve slid off the bed and stretched before he staggered into the bathroom. Raising his arms above his head made the overworked muscles in his chest ache, and he shook his head at himself. How pathetic was it that he got a workout from _coughing_? At least the bags under his eyes weren’t too bad.

Sleeping next to Bucky had been easier than Steve expected. He was just too wiped out from being sick to have any inconvenient physical responses to Bucky’s presence, and Bucky put out heat like a furnace. Steve had been warm all the way down to his toes.

Maybe Bucky had a point about the feet thing.

Steve scruffed up his shaggy hair and made a face at the mirror. He needed a haircut. Pretty soon hair would start flopping into his eyes when he bent his head down, which made drawing a huge pain in the ass. He’d have to trim his bangs back as soon as he found some halfway decent scissors.

 

As the first pancakes were sizzling, Steve realized Bucky had insisted on their stirring/flipping division of labor because it let Steve sit while Bucky stood at the stove. He snorted, and Bucky looked up.

"I see what you did there," Steve informed him. "I don't need to be babied."

"Not babying," Bucky said innocently. He scooped the first batch of finished pancakes onto Steve's waiting plate. "Sharing work."

"Yeah, sure. I'm doing the dishes."

Bucky didn't say anything, which Steve wasn't stupid enough to take as agreement, but he was too hungry to press the issue right then.

He picked up his fork, then realized Bucky hadn't made himself a plate. "If you don't eat too, I'm stealing the spatula."

Bucky gave him a sideways look and picked up one of Steve’s pancakes in his metal hand, apparently unconcerned by the heat of the pancake or the melted butter Steve had spread on it. He rolled it into a cylinder and ate half of it in one bite. Mollified, Steve dug into his remaining stack.

Bucky finished his pancake in another two bites, then casually licked a trail of melted butter off his thumb. Something deep in Steve’s lizard brain went _hrnnng_.

Steve leaned over his mug of tea and inhaled deeply, hoping Bucky would assume his cheeks were just flushing from the heat of the steam.

He really needed to do something about this.

Halfway through the third batch of pancakes, Bucky set the spatula to the side of the stove. His head tilted. Without making a sound, he was suddenly across the room, standing unmoving in front of the door.

[[Howling Commandos barge in, Dum Dum nearly gets his nose broken by Bucky in full Defend The Homestead mode, but they shout through the door first and that gives Steve enough warning that he can call Bucky off before he does any damage.]]

 

[[they have a conversation about Steve being bisexual]]

Bucky felt like he owed Steve something for the confidences he was sharing. Steve just kept on trusting him, handing Bucky more and more things to hurt him with. It was only fair for Bucky to do the same. He tried to think of something equivalent.

“Before the war, I used to go down to the docks and suck guys off for money.”

Steve choked a little on his food, but his tone of voice was carefully neutral when he asked, “How did you feel about that?”

Bucky shrugged. “It was good money. My Da had run off by then, so it was just me and my mom with three kids to feed. Not a lot of options.”

Steve nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Sometimes--” Bucky struggled to get his thoughts in order, trying to piece together disjointed scraps of memory. “Sometimes it wasn’t for money. There were bars. Fellas dancing. I used to--”

_Smokey bars and dancing tunes, skirts and slips and the musk of male sweat, his fingers running along a smooth-shaven leg over the dip of a garter and up to the bulge in satin drawers, a sailor kissing him slow and sweet, a tin of vaseline tucked deep in his coat pocket like a promise of a good time, “What’ve you got for me, sweetheart,” his hands on the small of a man’s back sliding down to grip the muscular curve of his ass, bending over a desk while the man behind him pushed his suspenders off his shoulders and pulled down his trousers--_

“Me too,” Bucky said abruptly. “Bisexual. Me too.”

“Oh,” Steve said. He was blushing again.

 

[[Steve meeting Clint for the first time, while he’s super jetlagged--possibly before/after the commandos stop him on the front steps and interrogate him “what are you doing in our building” “what are YOU doing in MY building”; Steve walks in on this convo?]]

“Guess your roommate is pretty handy.”

Steve stuck his jaw out. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Barton blinked at him and raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. “...No? Lola said he fixed the water heater.”

Barton’s pants, now unsupported, slid down to hang at his knees, revealing royal purple boxers. Barton didn’t seem to notice.

Steve deflated. “Oh. It’s just, he uses a prosthetic, and I thought you were--sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I haven’t slept since Croatia, so. I’m gonna.” Barton jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, turned, took one shuffling step, and toppled over. “Aw, pants.”

“Do you need some help?”

“Yeah, can you just roll me to 3B?”

Between the two of them, they got Barton (and Barton’s pants) safely up the stairs and into his apartment. Barton collapsed onto his couch and was snoring before Steve was even out the door, so Steve doubled back to pull his shoes off. He hesitated over Barton’s hearing aids--normal hearing aids shouldn’t be worn overnight, but Barton’s looked space-age enough that Steve wasn’t sure if the same rules applied--but ultimately took them out, setting them on the end table in clear view and within easy reach.

 

Bucky woke up already knowing something was very wrong. He kept his eyes closed and listened.

The street was silent. The street was never quiet, not even in the middle of the night. There was always the sound of car engines, crying babies, radios, drunken laughter. But now it was silent, like the pocket of dead air that formed around a sniper’s perch in the forest as nearby birds stopped singing. Reacting to a predator’s presence.

 

“Neighborhood watch, fuckwad!” Dum Dum yelled, kneecapping a STRIKE team member with one well-aimed swing of his tire iron.

 

[[Hydra attack on the apartment building, are repelled by Bucky, Steve, Clint, and the Howling Commandos. Clint recognizes Bucky for the first time during the fight, then calls Natasha, and Natasha and Tony and Clint all bring him in. I skipped over this whole plot/action sequence because I never felt like writing it, which in retrospect should've been a sign this was never getting finished.]]

 

[[Bucky in post-Hydra-reveal SHIELD custody, where "SHIELD" is basically "the Avengers, Maria Hill, and Coulson all operating out of a van, i.e. Stark Tower"]]

They kept him in a cell, twelve by twelve. One of the walls was made of thick glass with the same odd sheen as the helicarrier undercarriage. He was sure his metal arm couldn’t break it. He hadn’t bothered to test it.

He killed time. He was good at that, had learned it back in his hurry-up-and-wait army days and had gotten better at it under Hydra. The Asset had usually regained the ability to daydream four to five days after a wipe, and had known enough to keep its wandering mind to itself, allowing no hint of its thoughts to cross its face. He used the Asset’s methods now.

The cell contained nothing but a foam mattress, a thick blanket, a squat toilet in one corner with a water spigot above a drain beside it, and a plastic shower curtain around that whole corner. There was no metal anywhere in the room. The curtain was printed with yellow and green rubber ducks. He wasn’t sure how to decode whatever message that was supposed to send.

He was kept in the cell whenever he wasn’t being interrogated. He had seen five of them so far, including the three who had captured him. The other two were a balding man in a suit who hid lethal training under a veneer of avuncular geniality and a woman with dark hair and a military posture who never smiled. There were always at least three people in the interrogation room with him, eyes on him at all times.

They asked a lot of questions. What was his mission? Who was his handler? Did he need medical attention? What did he think of the food? Why had he gone to Barton’s building? Was Barton a target? Was he getting enough sleep? Who had disabled the arm? Did he have a headache? What did he remember?

He said nothing. It was easy, in captivity, to slip back into the Asset’s blank unresponsiveness. Silence was the safest possible response anyway. He had already decided he wouldn’t fight unless they tried to take him to the chair.

His cell was clean and dry. The lights went off, and he was allowed to sleep. They gave him water and food. The food wasn’t enough, but it was close, and he was used to ignoring hunger. It could be worse.

They hadn’t hurt him yet. They hadn’t made him hurt anyone else. It could be so much worse.

He should have known it was too good to last.

It was hard to track time with no windows or clocks, but if his cell’s lights were on a 24-hour cycle, it had been five days since they had taken him into custody. He was sitting in the interrogation room, ignoring Romanova’s questions and Stark’s chatter, when Romanova suddenly paused. A second later, the balding man in the suit turned quietly and left the room.

“What’s up?” Stark asked, looking at Romanov. Romanov and the man by the door both had earpieces, so well made that even his hearing couldn’t pick up what was said over them. Romanov glanced him and then moved into the hall, gesturing for Stark to join her.

He was left alone in the room. He wondered if the whole disruption was staged, the set up for a new style of interrogation. Anticipation could be worse than pain.

He let his eyes unfocus and imagined that he was back in the apartment with Steve. Maybe it was lunchtime, and Steve had made grilled cheese. Bucky might have found a can of tomato soup in the pantry. Bucky would stand by the stove and heat it up on one burner while Steve flipped grilled cheese in the other. Steve’s shoulder would brush against his arm. It would be warm by the stove, with savory steam rising from the tomato soup and butter sizzling under the grilled cheese.

He snapped out of the daydream when the door opened again. Romanov came in first, then Stark, his posture wary in a way it hadn’t been before. That was enough to put him on high alert.

They were followed by Steve.

Steve. They had found Steve. Everyone in Barton’s building had seen them together and they knew Steve was important to Bucky and Romanova was carrying at least two guns and this place was a high-tech fortress and he was handcuffed to a table and they had _Steve_.

The world blurred. The Asset moved.

When Bucky came back to full awareness, he was panting and standing upright, what was left of the handcuffs dangling from his left wrist, his right hand scraped and bleeding. He had Steve at his back and was pressing him into the corner, shielding him completely with his body. Stark and Romanov were pointing weapons at him. He was trembling head-to-toe, terror easy to read in every shaking line of his body, he was giving everything away but it didn’t _matter_ anymore, because they already _knew_. They had _Steve_.

“[[in Russian]] Please,” Bucky said. “You don’t have to [[/Russian]]--I’ll answer your questions. I’ll do missions for you. I’ll go to the chair. Please. You don’t have to hurt him.”

Steve squirmed against Bucky’s side, trying to get around his bulk. “Bucky, it’s okay, I’m fine.”

“Step away from him,” Romanova ordered.

Bucky complied immediately, going to his knees and lacing his hands behind his neck. They had more than enough leverage over him now. He would be good. He had to be good. Maybe if they saw how effective just threats were, they wouldn’t actually--

“Please,” he repeated. Sometimes begging worked.

Steve crouched in front of Bucky and Bucky flinched, because now _Steve_ was in the line of fire, but Bucky couldn’t move, couldn’t get up and stand in front of him, Romanova had ordered him to his knees and he had to be _good_. “Bucky, what happened? Are you hurt? Your hand is bleeding.”

Steve sounded so upset. “I’m sorry,” Bucky said.

Steve stood up and rounded on Romanova and Stark, hissing like a wet cat. “What the _fuck_ did you do to him?”

“Wow, no, this was not us,” Stark said. He lowered his repulsor gauntlets just enough to point them at the floor and not at Steve and Bucky. “He’s been Mr. Roboto this whole time, hasn’t said a word until just now. Frankly this sudden outpouring of emotion is making me very uncomfortable, is anyone else uncomfortable? This seems like a lot of feelings all at once, that’s all I’m saying, I can only handle feelings one at a time, preferably with bottles of scotch in between. Why are you calling him Bucky?”

“Because that’s his name,” Steve snarled. He was squaring his shoulders, standing in front of Bucky, shielding him with all 5’4” of his scrawny frame. Bucky wanted to laugh, and cry, and fold Steve into his arms and never let go, but mostly he wanted Steve to _not be in the path of the guns_.

One of Sam’s VA pamphlets had told Bucky that clear communication was vital to a healthy relationship. “Steve,” Bucky said, “please move out of the path of the guns.”

“No!” Steve shouted. “They can’t just hurt you, Buck, they don’t get to do that!”

“Time out,” Stark said, folding his arms into a T shape. “Nobody’s hurting anyone. That goes for Steve, too. Got that, Bucky? We aren’t going to hurt Steve. Understand?”

“Please.”

Stark looked at Romanova, who hadn’t taken her eyes off of Bucky. “Yeah, I don’t think he understands.”

“He’s _scared_ , asshole.” Steve crouched in front of Bucky again. “Bucky? Can you look at me? Breathe with me, okay?”

Bucky managed to tear his eyes away from the weapons and lock them with Steve’s. Steve looked very concerned. He hadn’t meant to make Steve worry. Almost despite himself, his breathing started to slow.

“That’s it,” Steve said. “In, and out. Good.”

Bucky focused on breathing in and out. It got a lot easier when Romanova lowered her guns to her sides. He kept his body still and his hands locked behind his head. He didn’t want to give her any reason to point the guns near Steve again.

“There we go.” Steve raised gentle fingers to Bucky’s right wrist. Yanking his hand through the metal cuff had abraded the skin at the base of his hand, and his dislocated thumb was tucked against his palm at an awkward angle. Steve frowned fiercely and rested his forehead against Bucky’s.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he vowed. “I’ve got you. We’ll be okay.”

Bucky closed his eyes and leaned into Steve a little. It was an impossible promise, but Steve _meant_ it, and Bucky’s heart sang with the strength of it.

“I have questions,” Stark said. “So many questions.”

“[[(in Russian) Now when we ask questions, will you answer them?]]”

“[[Yes]].” He looked at Romanova directly, hoping she would see his utter sincerity. “I will tell you everything.”

 

[[Interrogations montage, Tony v. Bucky and Nat v. Steve.]]

“How did you two meet?”

\------ 

“He saved you from a mugging,” Stark repeated flatly.

“Yes,” Bucky said.

“Steve Rogers, five foot asthmatic, saved you, six foot murder machine, from a mugging.”

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t have saved yourself?”

“No.”

\-------

“Why not?” Natasha asked.

“He was just frozen,” Steve said. “It was like he had no idea what to do. The guy grabbed his backpack and Bucky just looked at him. I told the guy to back off, and he tried to take a swing at me.”

“Tried?”

“Bucky got in the way and blocked it with his metal arm.”

“Barnes attacked the mugger?”

“No! He just blocked the punch. The guy ran off after that.”

“And did you pursue?”

\----------

“No. We went to church.”

“You went to _church_? Why?”

“To eat lasagna.”

Stark gave him a long, level look. “After Rogers saved you from an attempted mugging, you went to church to eat lasagna.”

“Yes.”

“Meat, or just cheese?”

“Meat.”

“Nice.”

“Yes.”

\-------

“So you’re saying you found him and fed him, and then he followed you home, and you decided to keep him.” Natasha sounded skeptical, like she thought Steve was making the whole thing up.

“He needed help, so I helped him,” Steve snapped. “And when I got sick, he helped me. It’s not that complicated. Haven’t you ever given someone a hand just because they needed it?”

Her expression didn’t change. “Not recently.”

 

“What do you think?” Tony asked.

Natasha didn’t take her eyes off the screens replaying the interrogation tapes side-by-side. “I think they’re telling the truth.”

“So the Winter Soldier, world’s deadliest assassin, imprinted on Rogers like a lost duckling because he was _nice_ to him?”

“He was trained by Hydra. Kindness isn’t something he would have ever built up defenses against.”

“Pizza Dog likes him,” Clint volunteered. “Plus he fixed the water heater. So.”

Tony threw up his hands. “Well, if your dog likes him, then clearly his brainwashed murderbot days are all behind him.”

“I mean, probably.” Clint looked at the surveillance footage a bit wistfully. “They also repainted.”

Natasha rubbed the heel of her hand over her forehead. “Did they really move a bunch of homeless vets into your building and organize a neighborhood watch?”

“Oh, yeah, the Howlies are awesome. I came in through the roof hatch last week and Dum Dum nearly brained me with a tire iron before he recognized me. Great guy.”

“If this is all a Hydra plot,” Tony said, “it’s a really fucking weird one.”

 

The interrogations paused for lunch, which Steve found absurdly banal under the circumstances, but he was glad they were at least giving Bucky meal breaks. When Steve walked into the holding room where Bucky was waiting, Bucky pressed both hands flat on the table, otherwise staying perfectly still as he looked Steve over from head to toe.

“I’m fine,” Steve said quickly. “I’m completely fine, Bucky. Are you okay?”

Bucky nodded and wet his lips. His eyes moved to the agent standing by the door, then back to Steve. “Wasn’t sure they’d let me see you again.”

“They couldn’t keep me away.” Steve meant it, even though he wasn’t sure how he’d back it up if they actually tried to kick him out. He’d figure something out if it came down to that. No way in hell would he leave Bucky alone here.

There were three ready-made meal trays on the table. Someone had taken the time to heat them up, to Steve’s surprise.

 

Steve tried to push his mashed potatoes onto Bucky’s tray, but Bucky frowned and lifted his tray off the table.

“Those are yours,” Bucky said reprovingly. “You need them.”

“You need them more,” Steve insisted. “Is this how they’ve been feeding you this whole time?”

Bucky didn’t answer, which was as good as a yes. Steve stood up and glared at the balding man watching calmly from where he stood by the door (because God forbid Bucky so much as eat lunch without constant surveillance).

“This isn’t enough,” he said loudly, fists clenched at his side. “Bucky needs at least twice as much food as this.”

Steve expected an argument, but the man just touched his earpiece and said, “We need five more MREs in holding room C, please.” He listened for a moment, then dropped his hand. “They’re on their way.”

“Oh. Well, good,” Steve said, thrown by the easy acquiescence.

“The restriction was unintentional.” The man was looking at Steve like he was a puzzle to be solved. Maybe it was just his default expression. “We underestimated Sergeant Barnes’ baseline caloric intake.”

Steve caught Bucky’s tiny wince at the name and title.

“Don’t call him that,” he snapped. He should probably stop pushing his luck, but he couldn’t just stand back and watch while people make Bucky upset.

“What name and form of address should we use?” the man asked, speaking to Bucky directly.

Bucky held the man’s gaze for a second before looking down at his potatoes. “Just Bucky’s fine.”

“Bucky.” The man nodded. “My name is Phil Coulson. I’m sorry about the food. It appears you were more affected by whatever version of the serum you received than we anticipated.”

For the first time, something like a smile flitted across Bucky’s face. “Didn’t think I could break the cuffs, huh.”

“Among other surprises,” Coulson agreed blandly.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Coulson opened it to receive a new stack of ready-made meals. Bucky dropped his plastic fork and laid his hands flat on the table, sitting absolutely still, as soon as the door started to open. He didn’t move again until the door was closed and bolted from the outside.

Steve thought about that, about how deeply ingrained it was for Bucky that he would be perceived first and foremost as a threat and not a person, and suddenly Steve couldn’t stand to not be touching him. He dragged his chair over to Bucky’s side of the table and pressed himself up against a startled Bucky.

“I’m cold,” Steve said.

Bucky immediately switched his fork to his left hand and wrapped his right arm around Steve. Steve burrowed into his side and shot Coulson a mutinous look, daring him to say something, but the agent just looked faintly fascinated.

 

Steve refused to leave.

Bucky’s captors sat them down and explained, again, that they were the Avengers, they were keeping Bucky safe and keeping everyone else safe from Bucky, that this was the best place for them, and that Steve could trust them. Steve listened to it all with a noncommittal expression and turned to Bucky.

“Do you want to stay?” Steve asked.

 _Want_ was not exactly the right word. Bucky tried to think of something true to say. He didn’t want to lie to Steve.

“I need to be somewhere safe,” Bucky said. “This is safer than me being in the apartment building.”

He didn’t specify who it was safer _for,_ and he thought Romanov caught the double meaning, but she didn’t say anything.

“Fine.” Steve narrowed his eyes and linked his hand with Bucky’s. “Then I’m staying too.”

 

Steve saw Bucky’s cell. Steve pitched a fit. The space was too small, too bare, too stark, with no privacy, no window, no ventilation, this was an illegal detention under inadequate conditions, and Bucky wasn’t an animal, for Chrissakes. And then, once Steve calmed down enough to be cunning, was this really the best Stark could do? All the wonders of his high-tech Tower, all his supposed ingenuity, and he couldn’t build a secure room that didn’t look like a cage?

Three hours later, Bucky got a new cell that looked more like a motel room.

 

Bucky leaned forward a fraction more and watched Steve’s pupils widen in response. His breath hitched, his heart rate increasing, and if this were anyone else in the world Bucky would think it was a fear response, but he knew Steve wasn’t afraid of him. Steve has never been afraid of him.

When he kissed Steve, when Steve angled his head and kissed back, it was slow and easy, soft and savoring. Bucky kissed Steve like he was proving a point.

When Steve fisted his hands in Bucky’s shirt backed himself up against the wall, pulling Bucky into him fast and hungry, that was proving a point, too. Bucky was grinning too widely to keep kissing, so he moved his mouth to Steve’s neck, just brushing his smile along Steve’s hammering pulse.

“Christ, Buck.”

 

[[I never really plotted out past this point; Bucky and Steve start living together in the Tower, they confess feelings and smooch on each other, and suddenly everything's fine??? NARRATIVE RESOLUTION SHMARATIVE RESOLUTION.

Bucky probably gives the Avengers intel on Hydra and maybe goes on missions or maybe gets to finally retire. Presumably the Howling Commandos keep living in Clint's building? Maybe they move back at some point? I just wandered away from this whole story as soon as they were out of danger and together, so that's about it, except for the sequel bits at the end of this chapter.]]

 

**Prequel bits:**

[[Bucky gets recruited by Peggy, who's gotten the serum and is leading a commando unit, after she rescues him from the Hydra factory]]

“The army hadn’t thought there were many survivors, but we got intelligence there was a sizeable force of prisoners still alive.” She watched him pour another measure of whisky into his glass, and he noticed that hers was still untouched. A prop to make a difficult conversation easier? “I was relieved we got to you in time.”

 _Wrong, Agent Carter_ , he thought. He didn’t know what the fuck had happened to him in the factory, but he knew they sure as shit hadn’t gotten to him in time. His blood felt too hot for his skin to hold.

“Yeah,” he said, and drained half his whiskey in one swallow. Passing out seemed like a pretty good idea. He hadn’t slept since Carter had pried him up off that table, and he couldn’t seem to fall down no matter how hard he tried, but he had faith that enough whiskey would get the job done eventually.

Carter picked up his glass and drank the half inch that remained. Her own drink had disappeared all of a sudden. _Spies_ , Bucky thought, and almost smiled.

“That’s enough of that,” she said briskly. She took him by the elbow and Bucky went, let her tow him past the crowd of laughing soldiers and out into the street. The cold night air and the sudden quiet were twin shocks to his system. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat gone clammy, he was covered in weeks of grime, and he was ashamed, suddenly, to be seen in this state by Carter, who was neatly dressed and wearing a perfect coat of lipstick mere hours after she’d hauled his sorry ass back to Allied territory. It brought back memories of his Ma hauling his father out of bars, back in the early days when she’d still tried to drag him home instead of praying he'd stay gone, and Bucky shuddered from more than the cold.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not sure what he was apologizing for but meaning it anyway.

“It’s quite all right.”

It wasn’t all right, but that was fine. It wasn’t supposed to be all right. It was war. He’d almost died and Agent Carter had almost died and they were standing in a street that might be bombed to shit within the hour. Nothing was all right, and everything was fine.

“I’m putting together a team.” Agent Carter put a cigarette between her red lips and raised an eyebrow at him until he fumbled in his pockets for a matchbook. His hands were steady as he lit the match and cupped his other palm around the flame. He should have passed out drunk by now, but his fingers weren’t even shaking. “I want you on it.”

“A team doing what?”

“Nothing precisely legal. We would work behind enemy lines, under orders from SSR. Disavowed, of course. No prisoner exchange if we’re caught.”

Was that meant to be a warning, or a reassurance? Bucky didn’t intend to let himself be taken alive ever again. A firing squad would be a mercy, compared to what had happened on that fucking table.

“Why me? I can shoot, sure, but Jesus, Carter. Look at me.” He swept a hand out, and knew they were both remembering how she’d found him. Strapped down, needles in both arms, fevered, mumbling what he could remember of his own rank and serial. “I’m a wreck.”

“I know.” Her eyes were hard to read in the dark street, but her voice was as calm and confident as ever. “I’m not worried. You’ll do good work.”

“Why?” Bucky repeated.

“I remember you from Camp Lehigh. You followed my orders. Most soldiers don’t, you know, not until they’ve seen some demonstration of authority. It gets tedious. But from the beginning, you followed my orders. And in Azzano, when you _did_ ignore my order, it was because you wouldn’t leave me behind. Loyalty and respect are not so common that I can disregard them when I find them.” She smiled, sharp but not unkind. “Particularly when they come attached to one of the best snipers in the American military.”

“I can’t--”

“Don’t give me an answer now,” she interrupted. “Go back to base. Sleep on it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

It was easier to go to bed now that he was under orders. He still didn’t want to close his eyes, was afraid of what he saw every time he did, but he owed Peggy Carter. He slept, somehow.

He wasn’t disoriented when he woke up, not even for a second, like his mind had been tracking his surroundings even while he was asleep.

His decision was already made. He couldn’t go back home like this, not while his head was fucked up and his insides scraped raw. Bucky had seen up close what happened when broken men came home from war. He could just see it: drinking himself stupid every night just like his father, until his ma or, God forbid, his little sisters came looking for him. Bucky wasn’t going to break their hearts like that, not ever. He’d take the firing squad any day.

He was a fucking wreck, just like he’d told Carter, but Carter had a use for him anyways. Carter was a good woman. He could follow her orders for a while, and see where that got him.

 

[[Steve, about sixteen, meets the Howling Commandos. Based on a headcanon I added to a tumblr post at some point: "Okay but consider: tiny angry foster care drop-out 16-year-old Steve Rogers getting unofficially adopted by a cadre of semi-homeless vets (modern day Howling Commandos) and helping their favorite bar owner (Dum-Dum’s ex-wife?) run off a neo-nazi biker gang."]]

“Woah!” Dum-Dum grabbed the blond kid by one shoulder, trying to pull him clear.

The kid must’ve thought he was being ambushed from behind, because he drove an elbow in a high arc straight into Dum-Dum’s nose.

Dum-Dum staggered back, one palm cupped to catch the blood dripping from his nose, to a chorus of “oooooh”s that ranged from sympathetic (Gabe) to delighted (Denier).

The kid whirled around and swallowed hard as he saw how many people were backing up the man he’d just elbowed in the face. Then his mouth firmed, his chin rose, and he put his bony fists up, like he was preparing to take on all five of them at once.

“That was a very nice elbow jab,” Falsworth said admiringly. “Beautifully vicious, good economy of movement. Been in a lot of brawls?”

“More’n a few,” the kid said. Local boy, judging by the accent. “I’ll warn you, I don’t go down easy.”

 

“Sorry I hit you,” Steve mumbled.

“Nod a problem,” Dum-Dum said cheerfully. “Been a while since by nose was broken. Kinda missed it.”

Steve’s eyebrows pinched together and he peered up at Dum-Dum’s face. Checking his pupils, Gabe realized.

“Don’t worry,” Gabe assured him. “He’s not concussed, he’s just like that. You get used to it.”

 

[[“Mom was a nurse” gets brought up via Steve fussing over Dum Dum, “was” leads into foster care discussion]]

“You got any family?”

“Nah.” Morita threw back another shot, grimaced, and stacked the glass upside-down over her other empties. “I had a brother, but he hasn’t talked to me since I cut off my dick.”

“He sounds like a real asshole,” Steve slurred, listing to one side. Morita caught him by the back of his shirt and hauled him back upright.

“That he is. You feeling okay, buddy?”

“Dugan,” Gabe said reprovingly. “How much booze did you give him? You’re corrupting the youth of America.”

“I only gave him one beer! Little guy’s a lightweight.”

“‘M not a lightweight!” Steve shouted. He hopped off his stool, stumbled a little, and then drew himself rigidly upright, glaring up Gabe’s nose. “I can take it! I can take anything you got, pal!”

Mother of Christ.

Gabe hopped the bar, poured a glass of water, and slid it over to the kid. He looked at it like it was a trick.

“This is water.”

“You saying you can’t drink it?”

Steve narrowed his eyes mulishly and grabbed the glass with both hands. Ah, youth. Christ preserve him from drunken toddlers.

[[Howling Commandos introduce him to Sam, he finds Father Lantom at some point, begins building the social network he needs to stay safe while avoiding returning to his foster home.]]

 

**Sequel bits:**

[[Peggy going down with the Valkyrie]]

“Not good enough, I’m afraid. The autopilot is badly damaged. Even the manual controls are temperamental.” Peggy’s hands were shaking. She held the radio very carefully; adrenaline always made it difficult to gauge her own strength. “I’ll have to put it down in the water. I’ll parachute out once I’m certain it will crash instead of rerouting.”

“You’re going to parachute into the ocean? You’ll be lucky to survive the landing,” Colonel Phillips said, and she had never appreciated his bluntness more than in that moment, because it allowed her to be airy. They were both aware of the gravity of the situation; there was no use dwelling on it.

“I suspect I’ll manage somehow,” Peggy said. “I’m very difficult to kill.”

“Now that, I do not doubt.”

“Send a search party, for the wreckage of the plane if nothing else. The blue device seems to have vanished, but there may be traces worth investigating.”

She kept giving Colonel Phillips updated headings as she checked and re-checked her chosen parachute. Colonel Phillips was good at talking to soldiers who were about to die (the war must have given him plenty of practice), and his calm acknowledgment of every new course correction never wavered. She didn’t for a moment mistake it for indifference.

When the landscape passing below the Valkyrie flashed from sea to ice, Peggy clicked the radio on once more.

“This is where I get off.”

“Godspeed, Carter.”

They were neither of them given to sentiment, and Colonel Phillips had never been one to make others deal with his emotions; a quality nearly unique among the American men Peggy had encountered. He was allowing Peggy the dignity of her choice, and she appreciated it beyond what words could say.

She double-checked her altitude, took a deep breath, and pointed the nose of the plane sharply down. The angle change made the atmosphere buffet the plane even more strongly, and she wondered exactly how volatile the plane’s cargo was. The crash alone might be enough to set the bombs off. Perhaps she should hope that it would--going out in a fiery explosion would be quicker and cleaner than drowning.

Peggy half-walked, half-climbed to the hatch. The plane was already dangerously low.

The ice sheet, after so many kilometers of ocean, was a cruel miracle; it gave her the slightest chance of survival, in a way the unforgiving ocean didn’t, and she wasn’t built to ignore that chance.

She jumped out and pulled her parachute cord a mere second later, hoping the chute wouldn’t catch on the plane as it unfurled. The ice rushed up at her. She had just enough time to think _too fast, damn it all_ before the impact blanked all thought.

 

Peggy opened her eyes.

She was alive, which was a bit surprising. She was lying in a warm, comfortable bed in a clean, airy room. That was almost astonishing. Before she had even drawn a full breath, her natural wariness took over. Her eyelids stayed at half-mast, telegraphing a drowsiness she didn't feel.

The room looked like a hospital room, although it only had two beds and the other bed was unoccupied; the hospitals she’d seen on the front were more likely to have long rows of beds than private rooms. A radio in the corner played a swing tune she didn't recognize. Some quality of the sound was off. The air smelled like nothing at all, a flatness she had only experienced in sterile laboratories with top-quality purification systems. The sheets around her, and the boxy nightgown she was dressed in, were made of tightly-woven cotton, not worn thin at all. Much too fine for a hospital, even a private one.

A prison, then, she thought calmly. A prison laboratory, carefully outfitted with all-new linens and mattresses to masquerade as a hospital. She was in enemy hands.

Peggy let her eyelids rise another eighth of an inch. She took a deep breath, fluttered the fingers of one hand, and waited.

Her lure drew in a nurse, a young, pretty woman with an American accent. She took Peggy's vitals (Peggy knew her temperature was too high and her heartbeat too slow for an average human, but the nurse didn’t comment on either, so they weren't pretending not to know about the serum) and spun a story of Peggy's lucky rescue from the wreck of her plane by an American frigate crew, which had taken her with them on their return trip to New York. Peggy expressed the correct levels of shock and gratitude, and watched the nurse’s face relax slightly as Peggy seemingly accepted her story.

There had to be cameras in the room, even if she couldn't see them. The door opened and closed more slowly than a wooden door ought to; undoubtedly it was reinforced with something that made it heavier. The room had no windows and no ventilation ducts large enough to climb through. She curled onto her side and pretended to sleep, listening intently to the pattern of the footsteps around her room. Multiple guards, presumably armed.

Well. Peggy had always liked a challenge.

Several hours later, Peggy was climbing out of a second floor window and dropping into a crouch behind a line of rhododendrons. She brushed dirt off of her stolen dress and walked briskly down a side street. Alarms sounded behind her, but by the time agents poured out of the building and began to cordon off nearby streets, she was already outside their search perimeter.

It was good to be back in the game.

The euphoria of her escape lasted about thirty seconds, until she began to really look at the world around her. It was clear she really was in New York. It was clear that--

Based on the change in fashions--

The technology--

The newspapers were dated--

Evidence suggested--

She threw up in an alley. Quietly, of course, and hidden behind a dumpster, so as to not attract attention. Once her stomach was empty, she straightened up and spat.

Peggy had never made a habit of lying to herself.

The evidence of her own eyes was clear. She was in New York, in the year 2014.

Peggy walked for a long time after that. Static filled her head, her mind churning furiously just below the level of conscious thought. Walking helped. It was walk or scream.

Peggy had always been good at compartmentalizing, and whether due to the serum or just hard experience, she had become frighteningly adept at suppressing emotion and focusing on the job. She was starting with nothing, so she focused on the basics: information, resources, food and drink, and shelter.

She pickpocketed two gentlemen carrying wallets in their inner suit pockets almost by reflex; well, they just made it so _easy_ , brushing against her on the sidewalk like that. The amount of money the wallets contained was absurd. _The future is another country_ , she thought. _They do things differently here._

Peggy decided to treat the New York of 2014 as an entirely new place, just like any other unfamiliar terrain she was infiltrating. How did one establish the value of an unknown currency? By finding out how much everyday necessities cost.

She chose a cafe with a very long line, so she would have plenty of time to stand and observe before ordering. The prices didn’t phase her; she had drawn a neat mental line separating the currency in her pocket from the US dollars she had known during her previous time in the States, so they had no relationship. The most significant fact the prices revealed was that she had pickpocketed more than enough cash to buy herself coffee and a meal. She was ravenously hungry, but nearly everyone in the line ahead of her had only ordered one or two items, so she confined herself to a latte and a muffin studded with blueberries.

“They’re really good,” the cashier said brightly. She had vividly pink nail polish, very short hair, and a ring through her left nostril. Some part of Peggy scanned her appearance as an example of modern female dress; a much less analytical part of Peggy noticed the spray of freckles across both of her round cheeks. “If you like like the blueberry muffins, you should try the sunflower pear ones next time.”

Peggy handed her a ten dollar bill. “Perhaps I will.”

“Oh, you’re English!” The cashier leaned forward like she wanted to talk more, but the man behind Peggy cleared his throat meaningfully. The cashier rolled her eyes, a quick flick meant just for Peggy, and grinned. “Enjoy your order.”

Peggy was startled into smiling back. “Thank you.”

The muffin _was_ good, rich with sugar and butter and made with fresh berries; rationing was clearly long over. Peggy took a seat facing away from the door, but with an excellent view of the whole cafe reflected in the giant plate glass window in front of her. It let her keep an eye on both the door and the street outside while she sipped her latte and took small bites of her muffin. She ate it with a fork, not because she minded eating with her fingers, but because forks were inconspicuous and made decent improvised weapons. Being unarmed was grating on her nerves.

Then two ghosts walked through the door, and Peggy forgot to breathe.

James--because it _was_ James, US Army Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, who had fallen off a train to his death last week or 70 years ago, depending on how you kept time--met her eyes in the window’s reflection and nodded at her, deliberately casual, before joining the line of customers. Behind him, pretending to ignore the coffee shop and everyone inside in favor of a small screen he was carrying, was a man who at first she took for Howard Stark. The longer she looked the more differences she noticed, but the resemblance was too striking to be coincidental. A relative, perhaps. Or a clone, she thought with sudden amusement, remembering the pulp novels James had read and reread until their cheap spines fell to pieces. After all, the future was supposed to contain aliens and flying cars and all manner of impossible things. She probably counted as an impossible thing herself.

Peggy could try to run, she supposed, but instead she stayed in her seat. She had never distrusted her team before, and damned if she would start now, just because James should have been dead twice over. If he had looked just as she remembered him, she would have thought she was hallucinating, but he looked older, the lines on his face harder. His posture and gait had changed into something much less showy and much more lethal. He stood with his left hand in his jacket pocket, not quite casually, and she wondered what he was hiding.

 

"We're attracting attention."

"Correction," the other man said without looking up. "I'm attracting attention. Kind of comes with the territory of being an unspeakably wealthy genius superhero."

Well, he was certainly a Stark.

 

“You were found in the Valkyrie. As best as the extraction team could figure, you parachuted out before the plane went down, walked to the crash site on a broken leg, and climbed inside what was left of the plane before it sank.”

Her ears were ringing slightly, and Peggy was distantly furious that she couldn’t remember anything after her jump, that she had no way to tell whether this was true or not. “Doubtless it was warmer inside,” she said, through lips that had gone numb. What a curious thing, to react physically to something she couldn’t even remember. The body carried its own memories of stress, she supposed.

“The plane cracked the ice sheet when it landed. Search parties were dispatched to the coordinates you gave Colonel Phillips, but they didn’t spot any wreckage on the surface--”

“Have you seen how fancy coffee gets in the future?” James cut in. Stark--Tony--gave him an offended look at the interruption, but subsided. James put his mug in front of her, swapping it for her empty plate. “Here, try this.”

She gave him a withering glare--she didn’t need to be _coddled_ \--but he was wearing the same look of mild innocence he had always used to deflect scoldings, and it was so wonderfully familiar that she gave in and drank.

James’ coffee was mixed with chocolate and covered with whipped cream. The sugar and warmth helped, chasing away the tremors before they could really start.

 

“What happened?” she asked softly.

“I survived the fall.” His right hand ghosted over his left shoulder, which was enough to tell Peggy when he had lost the arm. “Hydra found me. Gave me back to Zola.”

“Do you know,” Peggy said, setting the cup down precisely into the groove of the saucer, “I really regret not killing him after the train. The girls were all for it, but of course he was a valuable intelligence asset. In hindsight, I believe we would all have been better off just shooting him as soon as he told us where to find Schmidt.”

That earned her a smile, a little slower and more lopsided than she was accustomed to seeing on his face, but genuine. “I gotta agree.”

Peggy wanted to ask him how long Hydra had him, what Zola had done to him the second time around, if he forgave her for leading him to back to them, but Howard’s son was still sitting in the booth with them, now tapping some small screen and pretending to be absorbed in it, but undeniably listening.

As though he sensed her momentary attention, the man chose that moment to speak up. “You don’t know how right you are, Agent Carter. You have a lot to catch up on.”

“What did Zola do?” Peggy interrupted, looking straight at James.

[[Peggy gets up to speed on what she's missed, starts working with Avengers/SHIELD remnants, gets Angie's number, embraces soft butch aesthetics, and generally rocks the future]]

 

[[And one last sequel short: Dum Dum and Thor get along a little TOO well, and their nights out inevitably require bail money and a lot of paperwork in the morning.]]

"Where did the llama come from?" Coulson asked, less with dismay than with deep resignation.

The occupants of the holding cell looked at each other.

"We don't actually know," Jones admitted. "We picked it up sometime after the fifth bar."

"Nonono," Dum Dum slurred. "She w'already with us when we went to Bubba's. Remember? Thor bought her a fuzzy navel."

Thor snapped his fingers. "Ah, yes! The pink fizzing concoction of surprising potency! Fitzwilliam enjoyed it greatly."

"Even earlier," Morita objected. "She ate that old lady's straw hat in the park."

"Oh, right!" Jones said. "When we stopped for ice-cream. Yeah. I guess she got there sometime before that."

"You're a trained super spy," Tony said, pointing at Barnes accusingly. "How could you not notice a llama?"

Barnes looked at the llama and shrugged. "She's sneaky."

"She's seven feet tall!"

Fitzwilliam looked at Tony with an expression of regal disdain his old boarding school headmaster would have been proud to emulate. She then sniffed, reared her head back, and spat glutinously on his very expensive shoes.

"You're not helping," he told her. She seemed unconcerned.

"We're real sorry, Tony," Steve said. He was actually scuffing the concrete cell floor with the worn-down toe of his sneaker. He looked up at Tony through his lashes, his eyes huge and woeful.

"What are you--no," Tony said, taking a sharp step back. "We discussed this, the puppy dog face is not to be used in my presence, this is just, no." He ducked behind Coulson and averted his eyes. "Agent, make it stop."

[[Fitzwilliam the llama is also in a different one of my early WIPs, and my greatest writing regret thus far is that she hasn't made it to a finished work. Someday, Fitzwilliam. Someday.]]


End file.
